by Tom Fletcher
I’ve still never seen a real tree. The ones in the Dome don’t count – they’ve been fiddled with, artificially grown to what we consider perfection, but all I see are mutations of their far superior relations. Mother Nature is always one step ahead when it comes to beauty. She’s quite the artist.
I place the files on the floor, clearing space on the desk in front of me. Something falls out. A photo. Potential Number Three – Koa. I slip it back inside the cardboard folder it came from. I’m not ready for that yet.
I wave my hand through the tree’s leaves, the glowing greens flowing around my fingers, like we’re connected.
‘Morning,’ Hartman croaks behind me.
‘Hey,’ I reply, pulling my hand from the screen.
‘Coffee?’ he asks.
‘Absolutely.’ It’s exactly what I need right now. One of the perks of living in the Tower: they grow coffee here.
‘Can you believe this stuff just used to grow out there?’ Hartman says, as he loads a coffee pill into the machine. ‘Totally extinct in the wild now. Shame. No coffee! What the hell do they drink out there?’
He takes a deep breath and revels in the strong aroma. ‘Aaaah, God bless science.’ He makes a cross with his hands, mimicking the religious symbol for the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. I chuckle at the lack of a female presence in the ancient gesture to which so many still cling.
‘What’s funny?’ Hartman asks.
‘Coffee,’ I reply. He returns a confused frown.
‘A powerful plant that Mother Nature took from us, yet we still have it, locked away in this place for our own satisfaction. We study it, experiment on it, consume it, and try to reproduce as much of it as we can for future generations.’ He still looks confused. ‘Remind you of anyone?’
‘The floods came and we built an ark, dude. Welcome aboard,’ Hartman says, rolling his eyes at me and handing me a cup.
My nostrils flare in anticipation of the caffeine I’m about to consume as its scent wafts my way. Okay, maybe those mutated trees aren’t so bad after all. ‘I love coffee.’ I sigh.
‘Yeah, it’s worth not getting kicked out of this place just for this stuff,’ Hartman says, knocking his shatterproof mug against mine. ‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers.’
We sip and stay silent, savouring the coffee, our unspoken words making us both smile. We’ve been through a lot together.
The room is suddenly engulfed in a deep red light and a screaming siren pierces my eardrums.
Fire.
‘Shit! Is this a drill?’ Hartman shouts over the alarm.
‘I didn’t see one on the schedule,’ I lie. I’ve not even glanced at it.
‘That’s not the fire siren. Listen,’ he says, putting his finger on his lips. We hear the muffled announcement from outside our door.
‘This is an emergency evacuation. Please follow your hosts to your designated evacuation point.’ It is Vivian’s pre-recorded voice.
‘Shit!’ he says, panicked. ‘Let’s go.’
I follow his lead, sliding my heavy boots on to bare feet. Our door slides open as we approach it and we are suddenly consumed by chaos. Hundreds of men are moving down the corridor towards us, guided by holographic hosts. The appearance of their virtual femininity has no effect among the EPO employees: we’re all used to seeing these representations of a young female form. We interact with them as we would with any other employee. At least, that’s the idea, but with an emergency evac on the cards there’s more to be concerned about than EPO protocol for holograms.
‘What the hell?’ Hartman says, staring at the commotion as the first EPO employee gives in to the crush and pushes forward.
‘This is not good,’ I say, as the first men step through the holograms, breaking the illusion. Others follow through the light and the holo-hosts step aside in defeat, still speaking their pre-programmed emergency script.
‘Slowly follow the strip lighting to your assigned evacuation point. Do not push. Do not run,’ they mutter, while the men who share our floor scramble towards the exit chutes.
‘I guess we’d better get going,’ I shout.
Hartman and I step out into the flowing river of bodies, trying not to be swept away in the current. Our assigned evacuation point is not the same as theirs. Unfortunately.
The Tower’s summit is over four thousand metres tall at the pole of the Dome – that’s two and a half miles high. We’re currently pushing through the human crush on our dorm level as we head to our designated escape route.
‘Slowly!’ commands one of the holo-officers, as a couple of people are trampled along the corridor behind us, the red emergency lighting adding to the panic.
‘God, I hope this is just a drill,’ Hartman bellows. ‘I do not feel like taking the Leap of Faith today.’
When the Tower was built they had to invent safety features that could get its occupants out and down to ground level, if necessary. They tried everything: parachutes; inflatables; small, unpiloted aircraft. Eventually two external methods of escape were selected.
The first and safest are the chutes. Long tubes that drop down the side of the building at an almost vertical angle. The idea is to climb in, close your eyes and enjoy the ride while you plummet to what you pray is safety as you hit the air cushions at ground level. However, only one person can use a chute at a time. It takes approximately fifty seconds to ride the chute from the upper levels to the bottom. A full evacuation of the building using this method alone would take days.
The second means of escape is the one we’re currently running towards. It’s what we call the Leap of Faith, and you have to be trained to use it, so only a small percentage of the Tower’s staff are allowed to go near it. Unfortunately, pilots are in that small percentage.
‘Is this a drill?’ Locke calls from behind us, as we push through a side door leading us away from the crowds heading towards the chutes.
‘Dunno,’ Hartman replies, as we pick up speed.
‘If it isn’t a drill you’re gonna freeze your nuts off in those shorts,’ Locke says, referring to my casuals. He has a point.
Hartman leads us into the evacuation corridor. It’s already lined with a hundred or so Tower personnel. All male. The women who work and live in here have separate internal evacuation methods, far safer than ours, for obvious reasons.
‘Fall in at the back,’ Ketch commands, from the far end of the long, circular hall. We do as he says. My heart is pounding. A slight breeze weaves through the fine hairs on my legs. Cold air. Real air. Somewhere up ahead a hatch has been opened.
‘You feel that?’ I ask.
‘Cold air? Yeah,’ Locke replies.
‘Is this for real? Are we actually doing this?’ Hartman asks the guys ahead of us, who must be one of the engineer crews judging by their stained coveralls and filthy hands.
‘Not sure, but we’ve never known them to open a hatch during a drill before,’ the nearest replies, concern mixed with excitement on his face. People love a bit of drama in here.
‘Please walk calmly and quietly.’ A female voice cuts through our nerves.
‘Holy shit,’ the filthy engineer replies, as a young woman comes into view ahead. The unexpected sight of her perfection takes his breath away. She eyes the line, making sure everyone is conforming to protocol. Her black hair is tied back in a tight ponytail. She’s focused, strong.
‘She’s just another hologram, you idiot,’ Locke tells the open-mouthed man. ‘She’s not real. They must have put her here to calm us down.’
‘Actually, she’s a Projectant,’ I correct him.
‘A what?’ Locke says, taking a closer look.
‘She’s not programmed. She’s a real thinking mind,’ I say. The difference between holograms and Projectants is subtle, especially at a casual encounter like this, but I remember the program well enough to recognize one. It’s the imperfections that give them away. The nervous tremor of a lip, the slight twitch in an eye; they’re as close to being real as
you can get but, like humans, no one is perfect. This one’s little finger won’t keep still, causing her to grip her hands behind her back to retain her aura of authority: a hologram would never do that. This alone gives her away, if only to me.
‘Out on to the walkway. Single file,’ she says, as she marches along the line of men with an air of authority that Vivian Silva would have been proud of.
‘Gentlemen, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Shall we focus on the task at hand? I’d hate for any of you to fall to your deaths today.’ She smirks. Her words sober the men up as she walks back down the line and out through the open hatch.
‘Follow me on to the walkway, please, and remember to pick up an Oxynate as you exit,’ she says calmly, holding up a small nasal device as her projection steps out of sight, causing gossipy whispers to erupt among the crowd.
‘Walkway? Shit,’ I hiss at Hartman. ‘What’s going on? Has something happened in the Dome?’ My heart stops. If this isn’t a drill, if this is a real evac, what’s happened? Where’s Eve? Who’s with her?
‘Don’t stop, you idiot!’ A gruff bald man shoves me from behind and I’m thrust further into the tunnel. ‘We want to see the hologram.’
‘She’s a Projecta– okay, okay,’ I say, getting shoved along the tunnel.
There are holograms at work throughout the Tower, even out in Central. Programmed organized particles of light that perform menial, non-physical tasks, glorified computer programs. The more advanced tasks were offered to the remnants of my father’s abandoned Projectant Program. Overseeing the emergency evacuation procedure is obviously too unpredictable to leave to a pre-programmed hologram. It requires a thinking mind. Even if it is an uploaded one.
We creep along the wall towards the opening, towards the outside. My head is spinning. Why am I here? I should be with Eve right now. I would have been with her, as Holly, if I hadn’t been such a dumbass. I should be calming her, comforting her, protecting her, like I did before.
Blinding light hits my eyes and stings my retinas. The air in my lungs is freezing and takes my breath away, like I’ve jumped into an icy pool.
We’re outside.
‘Don’t forget one of these,’ Hartman hisses, shoving a small piece of plastic into my hands. I quickly insert the Oxynate into my nose, a small, straw-like tube in each nostril, and feel the cool stream of oxygen begin to flow.
‘Breathe slow. These things don’t last long,’ Hartman explains. ‘They hold just enough oxygen to get you out and down.’
‘What happens if my Oxy-thing runs out?’ Jackson yells, from somewhere up ahead.
‘Irreversible brain damage,’ the Projectant replies coolly.
‘You probably wouldn’t notice much difference, Jackson,’ Hartman calls.
‘Keep moving, gentlemen,’ the Projectant instructs.
My eyes adjust and my heart is wrenched to the bottom of my stomach as the sight before me registers with my brain. We’re standing on a two-foot-wide walkway with nothing below us but two and a half miles of air. This isn’t like being out on the Drop. This is real. Shit-scary real.
Many people are on their knees, trembling their way along. More than one person is vomiting at the thought of what we’re about to do.
My fingers are stiff as I move along the walkway behind Hartman.
‘Slow down!’ I whisper. ‘I’m a bit light-headed.’
‘Keep up. We do this together,’ he says.
‘Gentlemen,’ the Projectant calls, as she passes us in the opposite direction. My stomach turns as she steps dangerously close to the edge. ‘Thank you for your cooperation. I now leave you in the capable hands of Ketch, who will guide you through your escape route.’
We keep moving until we find our spots. Each of us has a small yellow box, with our name printed in black letters, bolted to the walkway.
‘Listen up.’ Ketch’s voice echoes over the wind, blasting through sound projectors suspended underneath multiple EPO drones that are hovering a few metres away from us. I’ve counted at least twelve in the glances I’ve taken. Looking out at them makes my heart miss a beat.
‘Inside your allocated box you will find your Gauntlet. Please remove it and put it on,’ his voice booms, and we all obey.
I fumble over the lock. Twice.
‘Let me,’ Hartman says, carefully nudging me out of the way.
‘Watch it!’ I clutch at the railing and drop to my knees, breathless, hearing low laughs around me. The air is thinner up here, and there’s hardly enough oxygen to satisfy my lungs, even with this thing in my nose. This, combined with the dizzying sight that falls away beneath me, sets my head spinning.
Not everyone shares my dislike of heights.
‘Here, get up, you’re making a scene,’ Hartman says, as he stands over me, offering me my Gauntlet from the box.
I take the equipment and he helps me stand, but I notice something behind him. It’s the Dome. I saw it from the outside when I was young, before we moved on to the base permanently, but not for many years and never from this angle.
‘Pretty amazing, right?’ Jackson says, noticing what I’m staring at. I hadn’t realized he was so close to us out here.
‘Yeah,’ I agree.
‘I mean, it’s a pretty elaborate prison cell but, still, amazing,’ he adds. He always adds.
We’re standing at the base of the southern hemisphere of Eve’s Dome. It protrudes from the Tower above us, creating its own horizon. I reach up to touch its outer skin but suddenly the entire surface of the Dome rotates. A gust of wind blows over us and everyone on the walkway clings to the railings. The Dome’s sensors saw the gust coming and adjusted for it before we felt it.
‘Gauntlets on, gentlemen,’ Ketch commands. Then there is the sound of metallic clicks and rusty motors warming up. I place my hand inside the bullet-shaped, metallic glove and its base automatically tightens around my wrist, more like a handcuff than a bracelet. The inner glove is rubberized and has a tight squeeze to stop my hand slipping out.
‘Sir, these things must be over ten years old. How do we know they’ll still work?’ a faceless voice cries, over the noise of drone propellers and the wind.
‘That’s why we’re here today,’ Ketch replies. There is a pause as the entire group, myself included, takes a look over the edge of the platform we’re standing on at the clouds below.
‘Calm down. You’ll be relieved to hear that this is a drill,’ Ketch says, obviously picking up on the vibes from every single one of us standing five miles above the earth.
I’ve never experienced a release of energy like the one that follows those words. A few people are sick again.
‘We’re testing these today so that, should an occasion present itself where you are required to take the Leap of Faith, as I believe you call it, we can all rest assured that even if your faith fails you your equipment will not. Now, if you’d all be so kind as to place your arms out over the edge and ensure you’re standing at least a metre apart. Good. When you’re ready you may follow the instructions printed on the side of your Gauntlet and activate the blades.’
I stand immediately and hold out my arm. I want this over with as fast as possible and get the hell off this ledge. I’ve read how to activate these things a hundred times or more. When you hate heights as much as I do, you make sure you know how to get down in an emergency.
I shield my eyes with my free hand and twist the handlebar inside the Gauntlet, as if I was revving the throttle of a motorbike. As it rotates I feel a vibration, then some sort of release. The sensation of real moving parts feels dated compared to the technology we use daily in the Tower.
There is a loud swish, like a sword being unsheathed, as three fibreglass rotor-blades shoot out from the side of my metallic glove, along with a cloud of rust-coloured dust.
That’s not comforting.
‘If your device releases three blades it’s cleared for the Leap and will be reset back in your box. If your device releases fewer, well, you can
thank your lucky butt that this is just a drill. Your Gauntlet will be replaced with a newer model,’ Ketch explains.
I look at the corroded rust bucket wrapped around my upper arm that just got cleared for use and thank my lucky butt that today is just a drill.
28
Eve
It’s been hours and no one has come for me. I’ve tried my door several times but it’s remained locked. They cannot come in here. I cannot go out.
I’m being segregated, kept in isolation. Imprisoned.
It’s crushing. I know they want to break me so that I succumb to their will and curb my own desires.
I’m foolish for having any hope for a future with Bram.
While I’m experiencing a growing fear of what’s to come, my enforced hunger is causing my emotions to fluctuate. I’m becoming increasingly irritated at my lack of control over my own destiny and angry at their unwillingness to listen.
I sit, wait and think.
Don’t they know they should never leave me to think?
I must have fallen asleep because suddenly I wake up to sunshine pouring into my room and the click of my door unlocking. It should fill me with joy that I’m being freed from these four walls but it doesn’t. Instead I feel my jaw clench and my nostrils flare.
They’ve left me alone for over twenty-four hours and it’s my turn to play them at their own game, asserting my own authority.
‘Morning,’ Mother Kadi sings, as she wanders in. It’s as if I haven’t just been released from isolation.
I catch sight of the tray in her tiny hands as the smell of cooked food wafts over to me.
‘Brown sugar porridge. I made it myself,’ she proudly tells me, when I fail to turn over and sit up so that she can put the tray on my lap.
My mouth waters. I know how tasty her cooking is. I bet they’ve been talking about what to bring me first. The Mothers know all my likes and dislikes. Part of me wants to consider this offering as a thoughtful gesture. A bigger part doesn’t.
Of course I feel for the Mothers. I know they would have been following orders yesterday. I know it would’ve been awful for them to see me punished in that way but, happily or not, they went along with it and betrayed my love for them.
