Elites of Eden

  I CATCH THE ledge with my fingertips.

  “Oh, bikking hell, take my hand!” Pearl shouts. But all I can see is her rotting, crumbling face, her gnarled hand reaching for me with sharp demonic talons. I can’t touch her again. I won’t take her hand. “Yarrow! Grab hold!”

  One of my hands slips, and I turn away. I can’t look at that monster Pearl anymore. Suddenly Lynx and Copper are there, too. “What’s happening? Oh bikk, what did you do, Pearl? Help her! Move over!” More hands reach down.

  But they look like monsters, too.

  I look over my shoulder. So far down. But anything, even that, is better than letting those monsters get me in their clutches. They’ll tear me apart. Then they’ll put me together again so I become a twisted monster like them.

  Pearl turns, running away on her clattering high heels. But all I can see are the stars whirling above me as my fingers start to slip . . .

  * * *

  SUDDENLY SOMEONE PUSHES between Copper and Lynx. Their hideous monster faces move aside, and oh, it’s a real person! An actual beautiful human with real human features.

  Lilac hair cascades over the edge of the building as Lark reaches her hand down to grasp my wrist. It tickles my face when she stretches down her other hand to grab the fabric at my shoulder. She doesn’t look strong, but there is grim determination on her face as she strains to haul me up.

  I don’t need much. Her help is enough for me to get my other hand on the edge, to pull myself over the rim. My feet scramble for purchase, and then suddenly I’m over, falling on top of Lark, safe.

  Safe.

  In that strange mix of adrenaline and synthmesc, something washes over me. A new kind of vision. Like a rippling stream—crystal clear, but I still can’t see quite to the bottom because of the disturbance at the surface. Still, for the first time in a long time, I feel close to something that has been eluding me for . . . I don’t even know how long. Months? My lifetime? Those two things feel almost the same.

  Sprawled beside her, I take her face in my hands.

  “I know you,” I say, looking in wonder at that sweet face I adore. How could I not have known my own dear Lark?

  We get to our knees and stare through the night at each other. As the adrenaline leeches from my veins, I can feel the synthmesc taking hold again. My mind is becoming fuzzy, my skin numb. Just a second ago everything was so nearly clear! I saw . . . something. I can’t explain it. I felt whole. For the first time in a long time, I felt like me.

  “I can’t hold on,” I whisper desperately.

  Lark misunderstands me. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you. You won’t fall.”

  I look at her face, at its sweet gentle lines, and think: there is truth. There is something I can hold on to. But it is slipping away by the second.

  “I remember you,” I tell her. “From . . . before.” I frown. Where did we meet? I know now that I’ve known her a long time, but how?

  Lark’s eyes light up. “You remember me? From before I came to Oaks?”

  “Yes . . . no. I’m not sure. All I know is . . .” I break off with a gulp. “You’re a part of me.”

  Then her arms are around me, and she’s kissing me, and I feel the strangest mix of contentment and confusion . . . I break free and jump unsteadily to my feet. This is all too strange.

  “I know you don’t understand what’s going on,” Lark says soothingly. “But there’s so much I need to tell you. So much you’ve forgotten. Yarrow, I have to tell you . . . you’re not who you think you are.”

  I almost laugh. It sounds so melodramatic! At the same time it stirs a deep curiosity in me.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I don’t know if I should tell you yet. We’d hoped you’d remember a little more by yourself.”

  “Who is ‘we’?” I want to know.

  She shakes her head. “I can’t tell you. Not everything. Not yet. But you must feel it inside of you. The wrongness.”

  I close my eyes. That’s it, exactly. A wrongness. Like every action, every word, every thought of mine is just a little bit off, in a way I can’t begin to explain. “Please,” I beg, “Tell me.”

  She looks at me sadly. “You have to give it time, Rowan.”

  “What did you call me?” I cry. That name hits me like electricity, coursing through my body from brain to fingertips and back again. It feels so right, and I don’t know why. Who is Rowan? It doesn’t make sense, and the confusion suddenly makes me furious.

  What the bikking hell is she talking about? Her words make me tremble, but of course they are lies. Not even a lie that makes sense! “Get your filthy outer circle hands off me, you liar! You’d do anything to worm your way into our clique. You gave me your drink. You drugged me to try to confuse me! Well, it won’t work. You’ll never be anything but low-class trash. Get the bikk away from me!”

  I have to leave. I have to get somewhere safe. But where?

  My mom, of course. She might even be in her lab right now. She works odd hours, and even has a suite at the Center.

  “Where are you going?” Lark calls after me as I run off. I don’t stop.

  * * *

  UNDER THE EMERALD eye of the Center, I’m greeted by one of my mother’s assistants, Buck. When I ask to see my mom, he tells me that she’s there but busy, but I can wait and see if she’ll be free later. He takes me to the sensory deprivation room to relax. I come here often. Here, I can sink into a bath of gel, lie in a quiet, darkened room, and shut out the outside until I’m completely calm. I must look a mess, but Buck doesn’t react.

  “My shift is almost over,” he says as we walk down the corridor. “But I’ll get you settled first before the next crew takes over. And I’ll get a message to your mom that you’re here.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I’m almost grateful not to have to face my mom right away. I need to rehearse what I’m going to say about tonight.

  I allow myself to be led to the dimly lit room. Black marbled walls, a deep obsidian pool sunk in the center of the room. The gel inside looks black, too, not the customary jade green. For a moment I balk at the change. But I’ve spent many happy, relaxing hours floating in that perfectly soothing body-temperature gel, letting my mind drift. It’s like a trip to the spa, without all the annoying chatter of the masseuse and aesthetician. It’s just floating freedom, peace and quiet. I let my clothes slither to the floor before I step in. The viscous gel is black and opaque, hiding my body modestly beneath.

  While I wait for Mom, I think about Lark, and that feeling that I knew her before. But where? I scan my memories, but she’s not there. What do I recall? Sitting as a splay-legged toddler on a white-carpeted floor, playing with a stuffed animal while my mom looks lovingly on.

  Dancing at a Rain Festival when I was eight or nine, stomping gleefully in the puddles. Mom opens her mouth as if to chastise me, but then smiles instead, grabs my hand, and we jump in a puddle together.

  My first kiss, with a boy named Zephyr, on the front porch of our house. I see the curtains part, catch a glimpse of Mom’s understanding smile before she retreats, leaving me to my exciting new sensations.

  So many lovely memories of growing up. A happy life.

  But no Lark.

  Relaxing, letting the dim light and soothing gel take me away from my worries, I settle into my memories. Some of them are crystal clear and diamond sharp, bright faceted ­moments in time.

  But . . . what kind of beast was the stuffed animal? I stretch my mind back to my earliest childhood memories, and though I can clearly remember the room, the carpet, my mother . . . the soft floppy toy I hold in my chubby baby hands is a blur.

  I think of the Rain Festival of my childhood, one of a handful of perfect memories of my mother that come back to me time after time in moments of distress. That is one of the memories that comforts me.

  But it is
incomplete. Parts of it are so vivid. The puddles beneath our boots explode in slow-motion droplets. But . . . what color were my boots? What was I wearing? Where, exactly, were we that day? Is it strange that I can’t remember these details?

  No, I assure myself. A child isn’t going to remember things with such clarity. I remember what is important—my mother’s presence, my mother’s love.

  But what about my first kiss? I relax a bit more into the tub as I remember the feel of Zephyr’s mouth on mine, the softness of his lower lip as I imagine a ripe fruit must feel, sun-warmed and sweet. That moment is perfectly etched in my mind. I even remember what I was wearing: a white summer dress with yellow-eyed daisies crocheted at the hem and sleeves. My mother, when she peeked through the curtain, had a dotted kerchief tied over her hair.

  I sigh, reassured . . . and then it hits me. I have no idea how I met Zephyr. I don’t remember his last name, or what his parents did, or where he lived. Nothing, before or after that perfect moment.

  My eyes fly open and I sit up, making the gel slosh over the sides. I’m thinking so hard it hurts, and still, I find nothing.

  I try, deliberately, to recall other days. Birthdays. I remember exactly two. And for those, only flashes, vignettes. Candles blown on a pink cake when I’m ten, Mom telling me in the pre-fail days little girls traditionally wished for a pony. Getting my first fully loaded credit chip when I was thirteen, so I could go on my first shopping spree. The moment of receiving that chip is complete, indelible. But what did I spend it on? What did I wish for at ten? What happened on every other birthday of my life?

  I have no idea. I stretch my mind back and find dozens of crystal clear moments. But between them, nothing.

  What is wrong with my memory? Why do I have these gaps?

  I’m so tired. Just the effort it takes to think makes me weary. I’m going to close my eyes, just for a minute before Mom gets here . . .

  * * *

  “HERE I AM, my dear,” someone says. It’s my mother. I relax immediately. It’s automatic. When I’m with my mother, when I even think of my mother, I become calm, as though a switch has been flipped in me.

  “Come now, you’re late. We have a lot to do in this session.” I open my arms to hug her, the gel slipping off my arms, but she slips to one side. “You know what to do.”

  I do. Of course, I’ve done this a hundred times. I smile. She smiles. Everyone in their green surgical scrubs smiles. We are all so happy to be here! Why is my heart beating a thousand miles an hour in my chest, then? Why does my jaw ache from smiling so much? Is it because I really want to scream?

  No, of course not.

  An orderly reaches into the tub and straps down first my left, then my right wrist. He smiles at me. I smile back.

  He straps down my ankles.

  Everybody smiles.

  And then, I cease to exist.

  “She’s been showing signs of leadership,” my mom says. Her voice is distant and clinical. “More evidence of dominant traits, less of a tendency to follow authority figures.”

  “It’s a fine line,” a surgeon replies. “Too much alteration, and you might as well lobotomize her. We can’t take away her free will.”

  “Don’t quote EcoPan directives to me!” my mother snaps. “I know the limits better than you do.” She ticks off a list on her fingertips. “No unnecessary killing of any human. No robbing a human of its fundamental humanity. No complete removal of free will.”

  “What we’re doing comes very close . . . ,” the surgeon begins.

  “EcoPan hasn’t objected yet. People need to be guided. They still have free will. We just make sure they exercise it in the right direction. Children still have free will. They also have parents who help them make good choices. That’s what we’re doing here.”

  “We’re going farther with this test subject than we ever have before.”

  Test subject? Is that me? They don’t even look at me anymore. I’m just meat on a slab.

  Mom! I scream. But though my mouth opens, no sound comes out. I pull at my bonds, but my body isn’t moving. I’m paralyzed. The only things moving are my racing heart, my frantic mind. Mom, please look at me! Let me go! Why are you saying these things?

  “It would be easier if we could just terminate them,” Mom says, shaking her head as she checks my charts. “The troublesome ones, like her. But the EcoPan abhors waste, and every human must be preserved if at all possible.”

  “This one is special to the EcoPan for some reason,” the surgeon muses.

  My mom looks at her sharply. “She’s not. We’re all equal to the EcoPan.” She walks across the room to get a rolling tray of instruments.

  And then—oh, great Earth! Then the needles come.

  “Tweak her dopamine levels to enhance her base-level contentment,” my mother instructs.

  Why aren’t you saving me, Mom! You always said you would give your life for me. Why are you letting this happen?

  “And then after you’re done,” Mom continues, “we’ll begin another round of deep-hypnotic compliance suggestion therapy. Pearl told me there was some conflict about coloring her hair. Such a little thing, but it is best to nip resistance in the bud.”

  The surgeon comes at me slowly, precisely, and I can feel the needle tip meet a little resistance as it touches my eye, feel the stretch, the little pop as it pierces the jelly. No, no, no! Please make it stop. At least let me scream, and cry, and rage. Don’t make me just lie here, taking it, as if this was all the most normal thing in the world!

  Suddenly they’re gone. My body is my own again. When I try to sit up, the restraints have vanished. I blink my eyes fast, shake out my limbs.

  The room is completely empty. I’m dressed in a pale green hospital gown, and I feel a cold weight against my chest. It’s a pink crystal on a braided cord. I clutch it in my hand. The people, the medical equipment, the tub—all gone. There’s just me, perched on the metal slab.

  And a door.

  I slide off, and walk toward it. Just as I touch the handle, I hear someone behind me shout, “Don’t touch it!” And I don’t want to. Nearly every fiber of my being tells me to listen to that voice of authority, to obey it. Because conformity is comfort. Obedience is happiness.

  But I remember the needles. The way everyone smiled at me, too big, too deliberate, before I suddenly became no more than a specimen. I have to get out of here!

  I twist the handle, and I’m instantly in another room. It is huge, and far in the distance above me I see faint multicolored glittering, like stars in a disco universe, like the decorations in my bedroom. At first I think that’s where I am. But I’m somewhere else. Somewhere much bigger. The air has a peculiar chill, noises have a certain resonance, that makes me think I’m underground. A cave? Oh, it is so lovely! The ceiling is covered with bright faceted crystals like the one I’m wearing. They glitter in the low light in hues of pink and purple, ice-clear and burning topaz. Their light makes confusing shadows with something big at the far end of the cavern.

  There’s a smell, too. I don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything in a dream before, but this is as clear as waking life. Clearer. Something sharp and fresh fills the air, high, almost minty notes. And beneath that, mysterious base notes that hint at darkness, moistness, decay. But not a scary kind of decay. The kind that comes with abundant life. The rich perpetuation of growing things.

  Dirt, I realize. It smells like that glass bowl of dirt I discovered in the priests’ inner sanctum. But that was small and sterile by comparison. This smells like a whole world of rich, wet, fertile earth. I feel the dirt beneath my feet, soft and nurturing.

  I focus, and see that the shadows are cast by what first looks like a huge, many-armed giant. I look closer, and that’s when I realize I’m in a dream. It’s a tree. There hasn’t been a tree on Earth for more than two hundred years.

  The
n I notice people, emerging wraithlike from the shadows under the boughs. Dozens of people. Maybe hundreds. I can’t see their faces, but each has a glow at heart level, and I realize they each wear a piece of crystal, just like the shining stones on the ceiling. Small children dart all around me. Their voices are impossibly sweet.

  The people suddenly stop. They are all facing me, though their faces are still in shadow. I start to walk toward them. They hold out their arms, welcoming, and I yearn to run eagerly toward them. They beckon me with their hands. Any moment, their faces will become clear. I can already tell that they are smiling, overjoyed to see me. Sister, they chant. Little lost sister.

  The crowd parts, and I see one person sitting alone at the base of the tree. It is a young man, his hair a little long, his arms folded over his knees. He has a golden crystal hanging around his neck, resting over his heart. I feel an answering throb in my own heart. My hand reaches up to my chest, but my fingers grasp empty air.

  The young man is looking at me. Not beckoning me like the others. Just waiting.

  Waiting for me.

  With my heart catching in my throat, I try to go to him. I have to. I need to. I need him like food, like breath. But my body is slow and sluggish. I move like I’m walking through water. Every step takes an eternity, and I don’t seem to be making any progress. I want him to run to me, to help me, but he just waits.

  Suddenly I hear screams behind me. I whirl around, and the people are all running around wildly. Old people are knocked down. A child stands alone, weeping. I turn back to the young man, and see that the tree is on fire. Flames lick up the trunk like living things. They sear the branches, and great fireballs erupt in the canopy.

  “Run!” I scream to the boy. But he just sits there. I turn to flee, then turn back to him. I have to save him. But my legs are numb and powerless. I’m held trapped in a matrix of thick smoky air. He has to get away from there! Red hot cinders are falling all around, and above his head, I hear the ominous creaking of branches about to snap as the roaring fire consumes them.