I need more time to digest what I just read. Society is held together by a common belief. What will happen if that belief is shattered? I have to think. The secret has been kept for more than two hundred years already. It can keep another hour or two.
But I’m numb when Lachlan takes me to meet some of the more prominent members of the Underground. There are cooks, clothiers, musicians, storytellers, healers, and even clergy for the Underground temple. I’ve always wanted to go to a temple meeting. Now everything about the ritual would ring false.
No, not everything. Not the message of hope, the desperate need for us to revive and reconnect with the environment, to love and cherish and respect it.
But as for the focal point of that worship, the man behind it all . . . My lip curls involuntarily. I can hardly pay attention to what I’m doing. I forget to smile, forget names, stand dumb like a post.
Before I’ve met everybody, Lachlan makes my apologies. “She needs rest,” he says, “and peace. We’ll give her time.”
Understanding, the beautiful, happy, mellow people go about their lives. They seem ready to accept me no matter how churlishly I behave.
Lachlan leads me back to the roots of the tree. Some of them snake above the ground before plunging into the Earth. As soon as I get near the tree I feel calmer.
“Do you know what kind of tree it is?” Lachlan asks. His voice is soft here, gentle.
There were once thousands of kinds of trees in the world. In my Eco-history books I’ve read about a few of them. Grand oaks, delicate silver birches, maple trees milked for their sweet syrup, fir trees treated with such profligacy that they were chopped down and brought indoors for winter festivals, decorated with lights.
But I don’t know what this tree is. “It is called a camphor tree,” Lachlan explains. “They grow into giants—as you see—and the oldest one at the time of the Ecofail was more than two thousand years old.”
“And that’s why . . .” I can’t say his name. “Why the creators of the Underground chose this species?”
“Partly, and for the smell.” He inhales deeply. “Think of all of our bodies crammed down here, sealed off from the outside. I don’t like to imagine what this place might smell like without the scent of camphor leaves filling the air.”
I want to tell him so much, if only to share the burden of knowledge. But I bite my tongue, and he goes on.
“The tree has medicinal qualities, too. We don’t harvest much, of course, but the oil of camphor can treat lung problems, even some heart problems, in small doses. At larger doses it is poisonous.”
That’s interesting, but I still just want to marvel at the fact a tree exists at all. I want to touch it again, to feel its leaves between my fingertips.
“But this tree, this one tree out of all the others, is particularly special. It is a symbol of nature’s ability to survive no matter what terrible things humans do. Do you remember in your History class reading about a great conflict called World War II?”
I do, vaguely, but in my memory it merges with all of the other senseless conflicts in our history.
Then he refreshes my memory about one part of the war in particular—the time when one group of humans dropped an atomic bomb on another group of humans. Not on a battlefield, even, but on a city full of schoolchildren and mothers and shopkeepers and gardens and playgrounds.
The city, the people, the trees, were incinerated in a heartbeat. They said nothing could have survived, nothing would ever grow again.
But when spring came, a small number of charred stumps sprang forth with new, green life. Nature had withstood the worst that humans could do at the time.
“This tree was grown from a cutting of one of those survivor trees,” Lachlan says, touching the bark reverently. “A miraculous symbol of nature’s regenerative ability. Aaron Al-Baz hoped—we all hope—that the Earth will be as forgiving again. Unfortunately,” he adds, “humans aren’t so forgiving.” His voice hardens. “We make bad choices, we neglect our fellow man.” He looks earnestly at me. “We are all we have left! And yet we make part of our population illegal. I know that supplies will run out if there’s uncontrolled reproduction, but can any civilized society actually kill its own children, for any reason? There has to be another way!”
He pounds his fist on the bark. I’m a little shocked, but the tree can take it.
“There’s so much wrong with Eden, so much that can be fixed. We’ve gotten so far from Aaron Al-Baz’s ideas of kindness and compassion.”
I make a choking sound, and he looks at me strangely. I have to tell him!
“Rowan, we second children are not just hiding down here. Not just surviving and enduring. We are the children of Eden.” He pauses a moment while this sinks in. “We’re making a plan to take back Eden and make it a place where everyone is safe, everyone is equal, everyone is free. We have allies above.”
“Like your brother?”
He nods. “And many others besides. The plight of the second children is small, in comparison to the plight of the poor. There are a few hundred of us. There are thousands of the underclasses, the poor, the desperate. You’ve seen the outer circles. How can there be poverty and crime in the perfect Eden that Aaron Al-Baz designed? His utopia has been corrupted by power-mad leaders. Al-Baz would never forgive us for what we’ve let Eden become.”
His voice is low, but deep and reverberating. He seems to stand taller. “Rowan, the revolution is at hand, and we need your help.”
I’m so taken aback I momentarily forget what I just learned from the Al-Baz manifesto. “My help? What on Earth can I possibly do?”
“You can give me your lenses.”
I blink, as if the implants are already in my eyes. “I don’t have them yet.”
“But you know where you were going to get them, right? You know the identity of the cybersurgeon?” He is tense and eager, leaning forward as if on the verge of springing for something. For me?
“Mom told me where we were headed. I think I could find the place again.”
“Tell me.”
And then, I don’t know, something makes me hold back. I feel like if I give up this important information there might not be any more use for me. It feels like a power, almost, or at the very least a bargaining chip. My description is vague, misleading, confused. He shakes his head and says he can’t think of any place matching that description. “Which circle is it in?”
“One of the outer ones. I could find it,” I offer. “I think once I saw the area, Mom’s description would come back to me. I could get you there.”
He looks at me for a long moment, and I’m pretty sure he’s aware I’m saying far less than I know. But as long as I’m willing to take him there, he seems content.
“Let’s go right now!” he says. “Are you rested enough?”
I look at him skeptically. “Do you really think it is safe for me to be on the surface again right away? And . . . it is daytime, isn’t it?” The light panels on the cavern ceiling say so, but my body isn’t sure.
He sighs. “You’re right, of course. I’ve just been waiting for this chance for so long! Do you know how long we’ve been searching for a cybersurgeon skilled enough to make lenses that pass? We’ve had a lead—just a whisper—about this person you’re going to, but we haven’t been able to track him down. There’s a rumor of someone so skilled they can hack the EcoPan itself, but we have no idea if they really exist. Your parents must have used all their government connections—and plenty of money—to find him and hire him.”
I tell him I had no idea it was such a big deal. The way Mom presented it, other second children had gotten black market lenses before.
“Some have,” he says. “But they’re not very good. They give the visual appearance of first child eyes, and some can pass a basic identity scan, but no one has ever managed to make lenses that bind fully to the neural networks, that are good enough to fool any Center official or securitybot or the EcoPan itself. If the rumor is true
, this man can. I need to find him, and get the lenses he has ready for you.”
I feel a momentary qualm. My mom gave her life so that I could live like a first child. My only chance of being normal is to have those lenses. Then, somewhere above my head, a family is waiting to take me in. Is that even still possible? Do the authorities know too much for the original plan to ever work?
I bow my head. Of course it could never happen. And I have the Underground now. It’s not what I had planned . . . but then, what is? Of course I can give up my lenses.
And then I realize what this means, and to my shock I find myself upset. “You mean, you are going to have the lenses for yourself?” I ask. “You’re going to pass as a first child and live aboveground in Eden?” Unspoken are the words while I stay down here, trapped again. I wouldn’t admit it aloud, but already a small part of the appeal of living here in the Underground is that Lachlan is a citizen. I don’t want him to go.
“We have a plan to infiltrate the Center at the highest levels. It has been in the works for years, and everything is in place except for the last component—the lenses. Once I have those, there is a place arranged for me with an inner circle family that is deeply sympathetic to our cause. There’s a place for me at Oaks Academy.”
I give a quick intake of breath. That is the most exclusive school in Eden, just for the children of Center officials. Ash goes to a really good school . . . but Oaks Academy is for the truly elite of Eden.
“Believe me, it took every bit of blackmail, bribery, and threats we in the Underground possess to set this up. Flint is going crazy because he’s used to taking point on all of our operations. But this is a long-term plan that needs someone to get close to Eden’s top families, and there’s no way he can do that. And obviously he’s far too old to go to Oaks. But when I get into Oaks Academy with my cover story, I’ll be in a perfect position to get at the Center—through their sons and daughters.”
It makes sense. An adult like Flint can’t just appear from nowhere, but a young man, a supposed orphan moving in with relatives, could insinuate himself more easily into that social milieu. Lachlan is charismatic enough to do it, I think.
But part of me has been building vague fantasies of friendship here in the Underground, and I don’t want to lose him this fast. It makes no sense, but I suppose now that I don’t have anyone of my own I’m more prone to cling to the few connections I make, even if our acquaintance is only a few hours old. I like him, to be truthful. He alternately annoys and enchants me. I want to know him better.
“Tomorrow night, after sunset,” he says. “For now you can learn more about us, and then get plenty of rest before we set off.”
I’m nervous about venturing up into Eden again, and anxious about what I learned about Aaron Al-Baz, but before long I find that the people of the Underground have a soothing effect. I feel instantly at ease with all of them. At home, even. The talk ranges from simple, even trivial topics—my favorite foods, curiosity about the latest fashions above-ground—to impassioned discussions of politics, equality, and freedom. I’m shy and closemouthed for a while, but eventually the air of calmness surrounding me allows me to open up.
Lachlan comes and goes, checking on me periodically to make sure I’m doing okay. Every time I see him I want to pull him aside and tell him what I’ve found out about Eden’s founder. But every time, he leaves before I can overcome my uncertainty. It’s so huge—blasphemy! But he, and Flint, and all of Eden should know the truth.
I’m just talking with an elderly man about deeper caves beneath the camphor tree cavern that might have challenging rock faces to climb, when an alarm pierces my ears. I look around frantically as the deafening noise assaults me, but I can’t see any danger.
All around me, though, the aura of calm instantly evaporates. Those happy soft people are all at once hard and focused. Weapons appear from nowhere. People are running here and there, taking up positions, crouching, aiming . . .
“What’s happening?” I ask, grabbing Lachlan’s arm as he races past.
“Get down!” is all he has time to say before he races off to a nook in the cavern wall, slings a long rifle over his shoulder, and begins to scale the camphor tree.
I still don’t see any danger, but the wailing, pulsing sound of the incessant alarm is drilling into my head. I’m not going to stay cowering on the ground. I don’t know where to run, so I make a quick decision and follow Lachlan up the tree. Instinct says to climb.
He looks surprised to see me following him, but not angry. I wish I had time to enjoy the climb. It is so different from the rock face that it takes me a while to find my rhythm. Near the base I climb using crevices and knots in the trunk. Higher up I have to wrap my arms around thick boughs and shimmy, and then higher still I wrap my legs around limbs and climb with my entire body. It is exhilarating, exhausting.
High in the canopy, not far from the crystal roof he stops, wedging himself in a crook. He gestures with his eyes to a similar spot a little higher up, and I climb there as he settles himself low against the branch, clinging with his thighs as he props the rifle at an angle, aiming toward the main entrance. I can see the doors easily through the leaves, but anyone on the ground would have a hard time singling me or Lachlan out. He has the perfect sniper position.
The Underground is primed for battle . . . but nothing happens except that the dreadful alarm finally shuts off. Lachlan holds his position for another five minutes, and I bite my lip, waiting.
Then there’s a second alarm, a softer repetitive buzz. I see Lachlan’s tense shoulders relax.
“All clear,” he says. “Soon you’ll be given your orders for defense drills, but you did well. You kept out of danger, out of the way, and you can act as a spotter from up here. Good job.”
He slings the rifle back over his shoulder and starts his descent. I follow—and going down is much harder than going up.
“You mean there’s no real threat? This was just practice?”
He pauses in his descent to look up at me. “Make no mistake, the threat is real. The Underground is in constant danger.” He throws a wry smile up at me. “After all, we’re at war.”
AFTER AN EARLY communal supper of simple but delicious food served by the children (trying, and failing, to look very serious), I go immediately to bed. With the mission to find the cybersurgeon waiting for me the next night, I think I’ll have trouble falling asleep so early. On the surface it would be nearly dark, and down here the ceiling panels are mimicking a gentle orange sunset that shines through the camphor tree boughs as I wearily make my way to my chamber.
I shut the door—it has no lock, which is worrying, but I suppose there’s no danger down here, except from the outside, the Above, as they call it. I fall into bed, expecting to stare sleeplessly at the ceiling. But I must fall asleep almost immediately, because the next thing I know I’m in another place.
Part of me knows it is a dream, but somehow that doesn’t make it any less disturbing. I’m walking through a meadow of flowers and tall grass. I can see it. I can smell the green scent that rises as I crush the herbs beneath my feet. It feels completely real. Up ahead I see shapes, low to the ground, and I approach, smiling, thinking they might be animals.
The stench hits my nose just before I can make out what they are. Corpses, human corpses, scattered across the beautiful meadow, their limbs twisted and contorted, their faces twisted in final agony and frozen in place until their flesh rots. Which it is definitely starting to. The scent of the flowers turns sickly, too sweet, and then dissolves into a smell of blood and decay.
At first I can see the grasses beneath the bodies. But as I walk—and because it is a dream, I can’t stop walking, can’t weep, or run away—the bodies grow thicker on the ground until it seems as if the Earth itself is sprouting them from the dirt. A crop of human corpses.
I forge my way through, almost wading, until the bodies are piled on top of one another and I have to step high, then climb, and finally crawl u
p a mountain of bodies. Their rotting flesh sloughs off beneath my fingers as I scramble upward. I can’t stop, because there’s someone standing atop this mountain of the dead. A tall, slender man with dark hair, a neatly trimmed goatee. I know I have to reach him.
He looks down at me, and his eyes are so gentle. How can that be, when he’s standing on ten thousand corpses? Corpses he made. Because of course, the man is Aaron Al-Baz.
He reaches out a hand as if to help me to the summit, but I hold back. He tilts his head, looking at me curiously, and says, “Extinction is natural.”
This wasn’t a natural extinction, I want to say, but in my dream I’m mute.
“Humans evolved to the point where they could wipe themselves off the face of the Earth,” he says in that soft, reasonable voice. “They would have, eventually. It was just a question of how many other species they took with them. My way was best.”
Dream Me manages to shake her head.
“It was a hard thing to do,” he says, a shade of sorrow crossing his face. “But the right thing. You will see, in time.”
Unable to resist, I reach for his hand. But instead of pulling me up to the summit he shoves me violently backward and I’m tumbling, cartwheeling over the pile of bodies, landing in a tangle, trapped in a net of corpses that pull me under like quicksand . . .
I wake up screaming!
I’m out of bed and down the hall before I really know if I’m awake or still asleep. No one wakes, no one peers out of their bedrooms. The solid rock must have shielded the sound of my screaming.
I could go to Flint. He’s the leader, he’s responsible for all of these people, and for me now. I should tell him what I know. I could go to Iris, let her take me in her plump maternal arms and comfort me as if I were one of her brood of second children.
But instead I go to Lachlan. I’m drawn to him, irresistibly, in my moment of need.