Eve of Man: Eve of Man Trilogy

by Tom Fletcher

  When I was younger I felt embarrassed in those moments. Now I feel a real connection with the public, as though I travel through the lens and speak directly to each person watching. I feel united and empowered, not quite so alone.

  ‘What he’s seen is better than the stupid video of him running around a track and playing the cello – albeit very well,’ I moan, thinking about the clips of Connor that Vivian Silva, the woman in charge, showed me – as though I should be grateful for a stranger’s musical talent and the speed at which his legs can move. ‘I wanted to see more of him.’

  ‘So you liked what you saw, then? It whetted your appetite?’ She smirks, her head hanging low so that she’s peering up at me, eyelashes batting.

  ‘Yes. No … I don’t know. I need more,’ I say. ‘I want to know what his life is like. What makes him smile and cry. Whether he has siblings, or a mother. What it’s like to have a life outside the Tower and lots of friends.’

  ‘He might not have lots .’

  ‘He’ll have more than I do. Real ones.’

  ‘Ouch. Cheap shot.’ She groans, putting a hand on her chest and rubbing it.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble.

  ‘It’s okay to be nervous, Eve,’ she says, her voice more serious, her jokey manner slipping.

  ‘I’m not, I’m just –’ I stop as my face starts to burn. ‘I might hate him.’

  ‘That’s why there are two more Potentials to choose from,’ she reminds me. ‘You have options. You’re Eve.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Eve, the Saviour of Humanity.’ The words seem thick in my mouth.

  ‘No,’ she says firmly. ‘Strong, talented, funny, beautiful, unique. It’s him that should be nervous. You’re the one in control here. Remember that. There are plenty like him. There is only one of you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I mutter, aware that my face has quickly gone from pink to red. A bubble of nervous energy floats in my stomach. ‘After years of waiting, of discussions and preparation, of wondering and worrying, tomorrow is the day. It’s arrived. I’m going to meet a Potential. A boy … a man.’

  ‘I think “boy” is more accurate.’ She laughs, burying her face in her hand.

  ‘It’s a new beginning.’

  Connor’s youthful face flashes before me. Having studied it obsessively I recall the pimples on his chin, his floppy light brown hair and his smile, which slants to one side. It’s all surface viewing, though. I want to know what’s underneath.

  Ever so briefly, Holly’s face registers pain before her perfect smile reappears and she continues: ‘Did you see the way he kept flicking his hair out of his face before he talked? I thought it was endearing …’

  ‘I did.’ The corner of my mouth is twitching.

  I’m dissatisfied with the information they have given me on Connor because it’s not enough. I want more. The truth is I’ve spent hours watching the same three minutes and twenty-two seconds of footage over and over again. I’ve watched it on repeat, taking in every detail, rewinding to watch him tug at his vest and seeing how his fingers connect with the fabric, glide effortlessly over the strings of his cello, and how his eyes squint at the sheet music. It’s far more spellbinding than anything else they’ve let me see, do or read. It’s life. From out there.

  I know they watch me watch.

  I know they’ll have assumed I’ve fallen for the first male I’ve ever been allowed to interact with, but I’m simply fascinated. I’ve wanted to soak up his every movement and inflection. They haven’t let him say much, yet it is all information – all knowledge of a world below that I know barely anything about. We share the same beautiful night sky, but otherwise our lives are totally different. I spend the majority of my time up here in the Tower, out of harm’s way, while he is free to roam. Free to live his life. Unless tomorrow is a success, of course. Then his life will be more like mine or, in a more hopeful world, mine will be more like his …

  ‘I think you’ll have a great time,’ Holly says, looking me straight in the eye. ‘I’ll be thinking of you.’

  ‘Will you?’ I cringe, as I hear neediness in my voice. Sometimes she really does seem tangible and real. Like she’s an actual companion and my only ally. I long to cling to her for fear she’ll leave.

  ‘Yeah. Of course. It’s – it’s an important day for us all,’ she stammers. ‘Who’s not going to be thinking about how you’re getting on?’

  ‘Right.’ I sigh.

  2

  Eve

  We’ve been sitting in the same spot for at least an hour, in our usual way, talking of everything and nothing. Sometimes she lets me natter on about one of the Mothers, my confusion over a mathematical theory or difficulty in mastering Mandarin. Sometimes there’s just silence. And that’s fine too. There’s such ease between us. It’s effortless.

  My heart spasms at the thought of tomorrow and how much effort will be required. How awkward, stilted and clumsy I may be, not through any fault of my own but, rather, the situation we’ll be in.

  Without thinking I reach into my pocket and pull out my multi-coloured Rubik’s Cube – like my wardrobe, it’s a link to a bygone era in which life must’ve been so much simpler. That’s why I’ve always been so fascinated by it – I find comfort in the way my fingers move around the Cube and the squeak as the plastic pieces rub together.

  Gripping it with both hands, I twist and turn the movable faces so that the coloured squares swap positions. It’s a puzzle I’ve always loved solving. It was so difficult at first. When I was little, I would stare at it for hours twisting randomly while getting frustrated. I’d dream about the thing! I remember Holly teasing me, ‘Just peel off the stickers and put them back in the right places,’ she’d say, knowing I would never cheat. Now I can do it easily, matching all the sides while barely thinking about it. It used to still my mind, but now the calm comes from having something to do with my hands.

  ‘What are you doing with that?’ Holly gasps, her voice shooting up an octave. She instantly looks panicked at the sight of the retro toy in my hands, glancing to the glass doors behind us.

  ‘It was in my pocket from earlier and I forgot I had it on me,’ I lie, acting as though it’s no big deal. Truth is I knew it was in my pocket, but her reaction has shocked me enough to make me wish I could rewind the last thirty seconds and leave it where it was hidden.

  ‘You know you shouldn’t have brought it out here. It’s against the rules!’ she hisses, her eyebrows knotting.

  ‘Holly, relax!’ I laugh. I throw the Cube a few inches into the air and catch it with both hands. It’s a risky move and my stomach flips, but it’s worth it for the look on Holly’s face. She can hardly believe I’d break a tiny rule like this. I’m usually so obedient. There aren’t many opportunities to rebel up here, and it’s thrilling to feel the blood racing through me.

  ‘Don’t,’ she pleads, bringing her palms to her face as though she can’t bear to watch. Imploring me to stop.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re being such a wimp.’

  ‘Eve, inside. Now!’ a voice booms, making us both jump.

  ‘Really? It’s only a –’ My head swivels towards the doors behind us.

  Vivian Silva is standing there, one hand on her hip, the other pointing in the direction she’s commanding I go. Her stature never fails to make me cower. Her height, her strength – she’s unlike any of the Mothers. There’s not an ounce of femininity or softness in her, thanks to her chiselled features, her grey trouser suits and matching grey hair, which is short and sharp, the front touching her cheekbones, the back almost razored away completely.

  The sternness of her face, which is always unfriendly but currently more thunderous than usual, stops me talking. There’s no point in trying. Not with her.

  My bravado slips away and I find myself rooted to the spot, feeling torn, not to mention humiliated.

  ‘I said, Now!’ she barks, her brown eyes boring into my own.

  ‘We’re just talking about tomorrow,’ I state,
keeping my voice low and steady, wanting to quash her anger and turn her focus to the bigger task ahead. A toy making its way out to the Drop is trivial in comparison.

  ‘Vivian, she didn’t mean to –’

  ‘Holly, off,’ she orders, without taking her eyes from mine.

  My jaw drops as my friend literally disappears, like she’s simply evaporated into thin air.

  They’ve never done that before. Usually Holly leaves through an open door, helping to maintain the illusion they’ve created for me.

  This is bad.

  Very bad.

  My throat feels tight as I scramble to my feet and walk up the concrete pathway of the Drop towards Vivian. I extend my hand, offering my Rubik’s Cube for confiscation, hoping she’ll take it and the whole thing can be forgotten. She doesn’t. Instead, she rejects my bid for peace, turning her head away from me.

  ‘Inside,’ she says quietly, in the cold, authoritative and measured voice I’m used to hearing.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble, feeling stupid as I follow her indoors and into the upper garden zone – a maze of leafy green trees, plants and shrubs. Millions of species all housed under the Dome. This was made for me. It’s my greenhouse in the sky where I can watch living forms thrive and grow. They’ve been thoughtful like that … Caring.

  The guilt creeps up on me.

  Vivian takes us along one of the stone paths that meander through the garden and down a staircase into the working quarters. She stops outside the closed door of her office and turns to me, her face more composed than before, the walk having calmed her.

  ‘Do you understand how serious this is?’ she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

  ‘I forgot it was in my pocket,’ I lie, the clasp on my throat making it difficult to speak. I’ve never been good at reprimands and they rarely have cause to issue them. Not really.

  ‘One little slip of the hand and you’d have killed someone below. You’ve not forgotten how high up we are, have you?’ Her question makes me feel dim and foolish.

  ‘No, of course not.’ I squirm.

  ‘We give you so much freedom, Eve. Do you want that taken away?’ she asks, sweeping her hair off her face with the back of her hand.

  ‘No,’ I plead, realizing the Mothers will probably be ordered to search me before I go out there in future and cursing myself for my stupidity.

  ‘Perhaps we should lock the doors from now on,’ she says, as though pondering her varying modes of punishment. She’s playing with me, toying with her power. I’m aware of that, but it still fills me with fear.

  ‘Please don’t,’ I say, trying to strip my voice of emotion so that I sound more grown-up and in control.

  ‘Or we could get rid of the Drop altogether,’ she suggests.

  ‘You wouldn’t …’ I gasp.

  ‘If you can’t follow simple instructions, Eve …’ The side of her mouth lifts a fraction. She knows she’s got me where she wants me. All I can do is act with the appropriate amount of sorrow and regret in the hope she’ll go easy on me.

  ‘I promise I won’t do it again,’ I say, bowing my head.

  When I look up I find her staring at me so intently I have to drop my gaze back to my laced brown boots.

  ‘You are a cog,’ she growls, her voice low and deep as she moves closer to me. ‘A significant one, I’ll give you that, but you are still a cog. Without us protecting you, you are nothing.’

  I nod, my cheeks burning. I may be the one weighed down with the ultimate responsibility of continuing life on this planet, but she’s entrusted to make sure I carry out the duties bestowed on me. She can’t physically hurt me, of course, but she can take away the things I love to ensure I live up to my own potential. The Drop is my daily connection to the outside world. She knows I’d be crushed to see it go and that I’d do anything to keep it.

  ‘I promise I won’t disobey you again,’ I squeak.

  ‘Good.’ She pauses, letting my misery linger as her nostrils flare in disgust. ‘Now go to your room and prepare yourself for the first encounter. I don’t want you to disappoint me two days in a row,’ she warns. ‘The public are counting on you.’

  ‘Yes, Vivian.’ I almost curtsy before I turn away and run to my sleeping quarters.

  3

  Bram

  The sirens wake Hartman. My best friend. My partner. My co-pilot. It’s two a.m. I’m not sleeping.

  ‘Storm?’ he croaks, scratching the stubble that covers the lower half of his round face. Storms were forecast but the sound of boots running past our dormitory heralds something more.

  ‘Protesters,’ I reply.

  ‘Damn Freevers. Go home!’ he grunts.

  Sleep.

  I’ve had so little of it that I’m starting to forget what it feels like. Hartman’s never had trouble in that area. Even when we were just kids at the academy and I was still afraid of the dark, his mind would switch off as soon as they called ‘Lights out!’ while mine continued whirring, trying to work all this out. Trying to figure out my place in the mess. It’s nice to know that some things never change.

  The sirens are still wailing. My guess is they’ll be pulsing for a while. I try to imagine what sort of chaos is taking place down at water level.

  Thousands of people braving the weather, knee deep in the freezing floodwater that drowned their city years ago. It forced them inside, to build upwards into the storm clouds, searching for warmth and safety. But this lot? These deluded rebels have strayed from their cloudscrapers in Central and, once again, found themselves outside our walls with only the fire of their anger to keep them warm.

  Why?

  Her , of course. Their saviour. The future of mankind.

  Eve.

  Protesters are nothing new around here. The Tower has seen millions of passionate faces, heard millions of voices call up to the sky, millions of pointless soggy cardboard signs nailed to damp wooden sticks marched back and forth outside the armoured walls, all wanting one thing: to free Eve.

  ‘I hate Freevers …’ Hartman mumbles into his pillow. I think he’s sleep-talking.

  Tonight’s protests will turn to riots. They always do. They’ll get nowhere, though. A fire quickly extinguished. Quickly forgotten.

  There have been one or two close calls over the years, but what do you expect? She is the most important human in history. Kidnapping attempts when Eve was a child were frequent. Assassination plots from religious extremists, terror threats around every one of her early public appearances. That was a long time ago. When she still went outside. Into the real world. She was just a little girl being paraded around to give hope to the hopeless, strengthen the weak, convince the non-believers.

  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 was a country, the Dome would be its capital.

  Population: 1.

  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, 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 shockwaves caused by explosives to pass around it while keeping its precious occupant bli
ssfully 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.