Elites of Eden

  I shake her as I scream at her. “I was a test subject! They strapped me down and went into my brain!”

  “I didn’t know . . . ,” she tries to say, but I slam her back against the table. She trips, and I go down on top of her, straddling her. She’s squirming, but not fighting back. I don’t care. All the rage that has built up inside of me for years comes pouring out. Everything seems to be her fault—hers, or people like her. The rich, privileged, secure first children who think they rule Eden, who despise anyone unfortuate enough to be born different or poor. Or second.

  I pick her up by the collar as I shout, “You helped them take away everything I had, everything I was!” I think of my mother, shot by Greenshirts as she tried to make a better life for me, and I blame Pearl for that, too. “They made me into another person, and you went along with it. You didn’t tell me I wasn’t really Yarrow. You didn’t try to help me. I’m not buying those phony tears now. It’s too late for that!”

  I slam her head back into the floor, and she groans. “I know who I am now! They robbed me of my identity, hid my memories, gave me new ones, tried to make me believe I was Yarrow. But I’m not, do you hear me!” I slam her down again. “I’m Rowan!”

  Suddenly Lachlan’s back in the room. He takes one startled look at us and then hauls me off her. I keep screaming at her. “You did this! You helped them break me! You helped them strap me down and put needles into my eyes! They got into my brain and made me do things I would never, ever do. Because of you, I lost myself!”

  Pearl painfully drags herself up to her knees. She’s staring at me in bafflement while Lachlan holds me back.

  “Who is Rowan?” she asks, and I’m taken aback.

  “Me!” I say, jerking myself free of Lachlan but not immediately resuming my attack. “I’m a second child. See my eyes?” I open them wide so she can see the one kaleidoscope eye, the other flat gray and blind. “They made me forget who I am. They turned me into someone I didn’t want to be.”

  “But . . . why?” she asks. I shrug, and before I can say anything else she asks in a peculiar, frightened voice, “Can they do that to anyone?”

  Lachlan breaks in. “There’s no time. We’re under heavy attack. There are Greenshirts pouring in through the labyrinth. Those booms you heard . . . When they couldn’t find the way through, they just blasted a new passage. We have to go. We have to get the children to safety.”

  Suddenly, Pearl ceases to matter. I start to dash off with Lachlan. As I reach the door, Pearl calls out, “What about me?”

  I pause long enough to look at her angrily. “These are your people. You called them here. You have nothing to worry about.” I turn to go again, then call back over my shoulder, “Unless Flint has a spare moment to come back for you.”

  In the crystal chamber beneath the tree, there is chaos. I don’t see any Greenshirts down there yet, but our people are running around with guns, trying to organize. I can see that the drills mean little in the face of actual attack. Everyone knows where they should go, but the reality of defending a family is somehow different. People who were trained to report to a certain post are delaying so they can check on friends to make sure they’re safe. People are arguing that they should fight while the younger people should hide. Teenagers are boldly trying to take on more dangerous roles.

  And small children are looking lost.

  “Lachlan, go!” I say. “You’re needed elsewhere. I don’t have a post. I’ll take the children. But where?”

  He shakes his head. “Getting them to safety is more important than saving the others. More important than saving the tree. I’ll have to show you the secret chamber. I should have before now, but . . .”

  I know. No one fully trusted me.

  We dash amid the chaos on the ground and start rounding up kids. There are more explosions, and now the sound of sporadic gunfire echoes through the caves. It is still muffled by the stone walls, though. They haven’t broken through to the main caverns. Someone is still putting up a strong defense.

  I spy Rainbow, and oh, the little hero has done half our job for us. She has her hands on her hips and she’s shrilling orders to a bunch of terrified-looking children, some of which are a few years older than she is. She’s clearly in charge, and though I can see her relief when Lachlan and I run up, I think if she had been left on her own she would still have gotten the kids to safety. And maybe even brought down a Greenshirt in the process. She has a gun strapped to her hip on a belt that is so big she had to double knot it instead of buckling it. I’d bet anything she liberated it from one of the older children.

  How did we humans allow the world to be so terrible that tiny hands need to fumble with deadly weapons? No civilization should permit this.

  “Where are the others?” Lachlan asks. There are still at least a dozen small ones unaccounted for.

  “I don’t know,” Rainbow says. She has the steady voice of a little warrior. “Class had just let out before the alarm, so they could have gone anywhere.”

  Lachlan and I exchange a look. Get these to safety first, or try to account for all of them? Save these kids and risk the others . . . or try to save them all, with the possibility that by the time we round them up it will be too late, and we’ll lose everyone?

  He makes a fast decision. “Come with me,” he says, grabbing Rainbow’s hand. He takes us behind the giant camphor tree. The roots rise above the ground, snaking across the cavern as if the tree is reaching out to us. At the base of the tree, where the trunk branches out as it touches the earth, making almost a cave, he starts brushing away crunchy dead leaves and loose soil. There’s a panel with a handle. He jerks it open and ushers the children inside.

  “It’s dark,” Rainbow says, with a little quaver in her voice for the first time. She’s trying to make it sound like a simple comment, but she doesn’t want to go down there. It must be hard for a person who has lived underground all their life to suddenly have to go someplace deeper, darker, even farther from the bright surface they must yearn for.

  “Dark, but safe,” Lachlan tells her. “The tree will protect you.”

  “How long do we have to be down here?” Rainbow asks.

  “Stay until someone comes for you,” he says. “No matter how long that is.”

  I see all their worried little faces looking up at me with hope and fear. Then Lachlan slams down the hatch. They must be so scared down there in the darkness.

  There’s gunfire, from much closer this time. I’m scared up here.

  “I have to go to my post. I think they’ve breached the defenses.” Lachlan presses a gun into my hands. “Remember how to use it?”

  I nod.

  “Good. But don’t. Not unless you absolutely have to. You look for the rest of the kids.”

  He kisses me, quickly—a goodbye kiss. We both know how this will likely end.

  He starts to go away, then turns back to me. “It’s not enough,” he says, his voice husky. He cups the back of my head and pulls my whole body close. “Not enough time. Not enough you.” He kisses me again, tenderly, lingeringly. “Promise me you’ll stay alive.”

  For some reason I can’t just say it, can’t give him the reassurance. I don’t want to promise something I can’t deliver. “I promise I’ll try.”

  “You have to live, Rowan. I can’t lose you again.” His eyes are glistening. “Stay with the children.”

  “No,” I say. “I’m staying here to fight.”

  “The kids need someone. If the adults are all captured, they’ll be alone.”

  I hesitate just a moment, and it is a moment too long. It’s too late.

  Greenshirts have stormed through the Underground’s defenses. They’re swarming the crystal cavern. While the second children are running around desperately, exposed, taking potshots at the troops, the Greenshirts are in a tight formation, with shields, and weapons suited to long
range.

  They open fire, and second children start dropping to the ground. There are screams, curses, crying. A haze from their gunfire fills the air, and an acrid smell.

  “Get up the tree, Rowan!” Lachlan cries.

  I don’t know whether he wants me up there to keep me safe or, like we practiced one day, so I can be in a good sniper position. I just follow orders, shove the gun into my waistband, and start climbing.

  Quickly, I reach a high branch with a good vantage point. Hidden in the leaves, I straddle the broad branch and look for a target. There are bodies everywhere. A few Greenshirts are down, their blood slowly seeping into the earth at the camphor tree’s roots. But far, far more second children lie sprawled on the earth. They lie motionless, but I can’t see any blood.

  A few Greenshirts stand alone, still, shouting commands, and I could probably pick one of them off. But I’m not good enough for the shots I need to take. Down below me, more Greenshirts are coming out from behind the main troops and scooping up screaming children. Methodically, they drag the children away.

  “No!” I scream, but my voice is lost in the chaos.

  They’re not killing the children. I don’t think they’re killing anyone. There’s no blood. They’re stunning them all.

  This is so much worse than I could have imagined. Death would have been bad. But they want us alive.

  To experiment on.

  I picture little Rainbow with needles jabbing into her eyes, wires going into her brain. I envision that brave and lovely personality being twisted into something filthy.

  I can’t let that happen. I slither from my branch and start to climb down. I’m so enraged I’ll fight any Greenshirt with my bare hands. I feel like an animal protecting her babies.

  I see Lachlan among those still standing. He’s using the tree for cover and shooting at a trio of Greenshirts. Lachlan’s gun is deadly, but they’re heavily armored. Some of his shots hit, but the Greenshirts only stagger back for a moment and keep coming.

  I need to get to him. I need to help him. But I’m still twenty feet up.

  He breaks cover to try to get a better shot at them. That’s when a Greenshirt he didn’t notice opens fire from his flank. Lachlan’s body seizes up, frozen and stiff. Then he goes suddenly limp and falls to the earth.

  I THINK THERE are no heroes in this world. Not for long, anyway. Aaron Al-Baz, who everyone in Eden knows is a hero, was a mass murderer who eradicated our species in his attempt to save the planet. Heroes deceive. And heroes fail. Lark, the bravest person I knew, died on a fool’s errand, from a careless moment. Another hero gone. Now Lachlan is being dragged away by Greenshirts, along with dozens of other second children—men, women, old folk—who also lie stunned. Or maybe dead, I can’t tell. There is no blood, but their bodies are lifeless, their eyes staring. Lachlan would have died to save the Underground. Now he will die, and the Underground will, too.

  And me? Will I be a hero? I want to jump out of the tree onto the back of the nearest Greenshirt, shoot him, claw out his eyes, choke the life out of him for daring to violate our peaceful sanctuary. I want to be as brutal as they are, as merciless as the Center. And if will and dreams could bring success, I would be a hero.

  But I would be throwing my life away. Part of me feels an urge to do just that. Lark gone, Lachlan captured . . . what is left for me?

  Ash, I think. I don’t see him among the captured.

  The children hidden among the roots of the great camphor.

  I watch Lachlan’s body being dragged away, looking so powerless, and wonder if the situation were reversed, would he would risk it all for me? No, he would protect the children. He would know there is no shame in hiding or running instead of fighting, if that’s the best way to protect the innocent.

  And later when the children were safe, he would come for me.

  “Be strong, Lachlan,” I whisper under my breath. “Stay alive. I swear I will come for you.”

  The cavern floor has cleared out as the last of the unconscious second children are dragged roughly out. The fight is still raging in the rooms and passageways overhead, though. Gunfire from our side bounces in endless echoes around the cavern, along with the more muted sounds of the Greenshirts’ stun weapons. I drop down to the roots and crouch hidden behind the tree. The kids are safe for now, so I need to find Ash.

  I’m sure he’s still in the hospital room, recovering. I just hope he’s recovered enough that he can walk, or better still, run. If he can hold a gun, even better.

  The simulated sun that drifts in its daily cycle across the crystal roof of the cave system shows late evening. The fading golden light casts long shadows on the ground, the branches reflected in blackness below. I use these to my advantage, slipping through the darkest spots as I make my way to the infirmary. No one spots me.

  I fling open the door . . . to an empty room.

  Was he captured? Was he strong enough to evacuate? A bed that must be his is mussed, the sheets thrown back. There is a spot of blood on the pillowcase. From his tracheotomy, or from a new wound? I search the room for clues but find none, other than more beds that look like they were left in a hurry.

  I don’t know what to do! Search for him and risk capture? Risk leaving the hidden kids alone under the tree? They’re brave and resourceful, but what will they do alone down there if no one comes for them?

  As I hover at the door, undecided, the Greenshirts make my decision for me. I hear several of them outside, their heavy boots stomping.

  “Did you see their creepy eyes?” I hear one of them ask.

  “They’re unnatural,” another says. “Like they’re not quite human.”

  Another pair of boots stomps up, and I risk a peek through the cracked door. They salute the newcomer.

  “We’re just in the mop-up stage, Sarge. Still dragging a few more bodies off . . .”

  “Bodies?” the sergeant asks sharply.

  “Figure of speech. No casualties that I know of, sir.” He chuckles. “Quite a few teeth knocked out. That stun we started using hits ’em hard, and they go down stiff. Had teeth crunching under my boots since . . .”

  The sergeant has no patience for frivolity, and interrupts him. “Is this level clear?”

  “The lower level rooms have been searched, up to the fourth level.” That’s good and bad. It means that if Ash was in here, he’s been captured. But it means that they think this room is clear. They probably won’t open the door and find me. Carefully, I pick up a scalpel and some kind of pointed probe from one of the surgical tables, clutching them both in one hand. The other slides the gun from my waistband. If they do come in, I won’t go down without a fight.

  “Sarge,” the Greenshirt says, “I don’t get why we don’t just kill them all. I mean, they’re going to be executed anyway, right? Why not just gun them down? Or leave the stunned ones to be burned. Less mess, less paperwork.”

  “Those kinds of decisions are above your pay grade—and mine,” he says. “We can just assume that the Center has a good reason for it.”

  “And if we miss some, no problem,” the Greenshirt says, and I see him pointing upward. “My plan can be the backup. Barbecued criminals!”

  The sergeant presses his ear to hear something crackling in his earpiece. “The upper stories are clear,” he says. “The fire is well established.” He raises his voice. “All troops, clear out. I repeat, clear the cavern. We have ten minutes until total involvement.”

  Fire? They’re setting the Underground on fire? How can that be? It’s solid rock. The only flammable thing is . . .

  Oh, great Earth no!

  They couldn’t! How can they not be overawed by the presence of a real live tree in a world they think is dead? How is it that when they saw the camphor tree they didn’t immediately stop the attack and fall to their knees?

  I get my answer an instant late
r. “Are you tellin’ me these subhumans think that’s a real tree?” The Greenshirt who joked about shattered teeth is laughing even harder. “They must be a pack of idiots. Worshiping a fake tree? I might as well worship my lamp and call it the sun.”

  They’re being manipulated. They aren’t being allowed to see the truth. Their lens implants won’t let them, despite the evidence right before their eyes.

  “Second children don’t have the advantages that we do,” the sergeant says. “They’re criminals, outcasts, without education. I’m sure most of them are mentally subpar. You and I can clearly see that this is a synthetic tree. Oh, a decently crafted one, but fake nonetheless. The poor deluded second children see what they want to see.”

  “You sound like you feel sorry for them, Sarge.”

  “Maybe a little,” he replies, “when I think of the reasons why the Center might want them all alive.”

  Finally, an eternity later, they walk away. As he leaves, the sergeant shouts, “More accelerant on the trunk! Move lively now!”

  I wait, making myself count to thirty to be sure they’re gone, then step out into a nightmare.

  The tree, the beautiful tree, is a fireball.

  The entire canopy is engulfed in horrific dancing red. The flames kiss every leaf, making the fragrant oils in the tree sizzle. Fire licks the trunk, too, but it can’t get a purchase in the thick moist bark.

  It’s sacrilege. It’s a sin.

  The children!

  The vast chamber is filling up with smoke. It rises in acrid gray clouds to hover over the top half of the cavern. Down here the air smells like a sickening combination of sharp melting camphor resin and smoke, but the air is still breathable. The cloud of smoke makes a thick wall so any Greenshirts up there won’t be able to see me. Small mercies.