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Prologue

1: Eve

2: Eve

3: Bram

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Acknowledgements

Follow Penguin

Prologue

On the first day no one really noticed. Perhaps there was a chuckle among the midwives at the sight of all those babies wrapped in blue blankets, not a pink one in sight. Individual hospitals would’ve thought nothing of it. They wouldn’t have known that this day of blue was only the beginning.

On the second day they frowned, confused, at another twenty-four hours of blue.

Just boys.

How baffling. Still, they assumed it was nothing more than coincidence. The Y chromosome was just making more of an appearance than usual.

On the third day, the media made light of it – It Really Is A Man’s World. That brought the situation to everyone’s attention. Doctors and nurses realized theirs wasn’t the only hospital to go blue. Blue was taking over. Not just entire hospitals, not just entire countries, but the entire world.

Where had the pink gone?

With approximately two and a half million babies born each week, half of whom were usually girls, the sudden imbalance couldn’t be ignored. World leaders were called together with the most respected scientists to try to understand what was happening and discuss measures they could take to monitor the situation. They had to find an ethical way of working – they didn’t want to strip people of their human rights. That was what they said.

Initially.

At first it was a phenomenon, but soon it was threatening the survival of humanity, leaving us all on the brink of extinction. That was when governments stopped being nice. When women became more controlled and oppressed than ever before.

Compulsory tests were carried out. To start with, pregnant women were screened to identify the sex of their unborn children. Then, as more time passed with no females born, all women under the age of fifty were examined in an attempt to determine the cause of the blue generation.

Sex was encouraged – those in power wanted lots of babies in the hope that the odds would eventually favour girls. And there were girls – they were spotted in utero, bouncing around in the amniotic fluid and nudging their mummies with their flailing arms and legs.

Not one survived.

Eventually those cases disappeared. There was no pink to be seen … or lost.

Science battled for years. And years. And years. No cause was found. There was no breakthrough. Without a cause there could be no cure. The future of humanity was ticking away with the biological clocks of any remaining fertile women.

They would never give up, the world was told. They would save the human race. Somehow.

And the people played their part. They prayed. Prayed to many gods to grant them the rebirth of their kind. For a long time it seemed no one was listening. The people prayed harder, for longer, calling on different all-powerful beings with urgency. They unearthed old religions, forged new ones, and muttered their worshipful chants with longing.

Then, after a fifty-year female drought, a miracle happened – and it didn’t occur in a sterile science lab.

Corinne and Ernie Warren had been married for twenty-five years. They’d always wanted children but it seemed Mother Nature wasn’t on their side. Corinne suffered miscarriage after miscarriage until eventually the couple gave up their dream to become parents. She was struck off as a potential carrier when she was forty-three. They accepted the failure with much sadness and a hint of relief. They’d been beaten down by grief so many times. They were broken, but at least they had each other to cling to.

At fifty-one, eight years later, Corinne unexpectedly fell pregnant. Naturally. She and Ernie were thrilled, but full of fear. What if this baby was taken from them like all the others? They couldn’t face another miscarriage.

Like every woman, Corinne was screened – but, unlike other women, she and Ernie welcomed the tests. They wanted to be sure their baby was fit and healthy – they wanted to do all they could to ensure the safe arrival of the little being they already loved so much and for whom they would do anything.

Their hearts leapt when they saw their creation stretching on the ultrasound. Their baby. Their joy.

For the midwife dealing with Corinne, the screening process had become routine – a monotonous series of tests with invariably the same outcome. She didn’t expect to see anything but blue.

But there it was.

Pink.

And her appearance made quite an impact.

It caused a panic. The result in that examination room sent shockwaves of hysteria rippling around the globe. People couldn’t believe that good news had come at last. They were longing to be told more about the couple who offered them a glimmer of light.

But Corinne’s medical history of miscarriages, her age and the fact that no girls had survived in utero for decades was a cause for concern. Corinne and Ernie were moved into a specialized medical facility to maximize the chances of the pregnancy going full-term. Other than daily scans, no tests were carried out. This time Mother Nature was allowed to take her course – at least until there was any reason to interfere. Perhaps it was time to trust the human body again.

Corinne and Ernie understood the need for monitoring their baby’s development and the desire to keep their daughter safe. They were happy their child was as special to others as she was to them. They didn’t resent the restrictions placed on them. Or that they were allowed no visitors at all. They agreed they’d do whatever it took to bring their baby safely into the world.

There were complications in the delivery room. Mother and daughter were left fighting for their lives. Corinne died soon after giving birth, having fulfilled her life’s ambition to become a mother.

Ernie was grief-stricken, unable to deal with the loss of his wife. Incapable of being a father.

He never held his daughter.

Never kissed her.

Never told her he loved her.

And what of the baby girl?

The world had waited for her arrival with bated breath, longing for the news that their hopes had been realized, that their girl had been born.

She had.

Against all odds, she survived.

She was the first girl born in fifty years.

They called her Eve.

She represented the rebirth of the human race. She was the answer to their prayers. She was all they cared about, their final hope.

Eve was the saviour of humanity.

I am Eve.

1 Eve

Good toes, naughty toes. Good toes, naughty toes. Good toes, naughty toes …

I watch my feet as they extend into a perfect point, then flex them, feeling the pull of my calf muscles and enjoying the breeze on my skin as I sit with my legs dangling over the Drop.

I love it here. Outside. Basking in the warmth of the sun. Heights don’t bother me, which is a good thing: I can’t remember a time when I didn’t live above the clouds in the sanctuary they built for me in which I sleep, eat, learn and grow. Everything I could ever need is here, within the vast half-bubble of the Dome, where the glass lets the beauty of outside in. Sunbeams bounce off every surface.

Up here in my home above the clouds, I can’t be seen, or see, thanks to the white cloud lying between us. A constant veil hides the world and me from each other. Occasionally I’m sure I can see shapes from the city below, but that might be my imagination.

Still, I need to be closer to it. I need to experience it. That’s why I love sitting on the Drop. This is my spot, my place to escape to at the end of a walkway to nowhere. It is the perfect quiet space in which to mull over the day and my future.

Our future.

The future.

‘There you are,’ Holly says, walking through the glass doors several metres behind me, as though there’s anywhere else I’d be.

I’m rarely completely alone out here. Or, rather, I’m never out here for long before she shows up. Without tearing my eyes from the beautiful view, I raise a welcoming hand. It’s not her fault she interrupts my quiet time. She’s only doing as she’s told. They want to hear my thoughts – especially now, ahead of tomorrow. So they send her to find me. Holly. My best friend. My constant companion. My anchor. I was in class with her a few minutes ago discussing William Shakespeare’s ability to turn tragedy into near-comedy. She had some interesting thoughts, which I found intriguing and insightful – sometimes I learn as much from her as I do from whoever is teaching.

Holly is different now, though. She’s less studious and more … accessible.

‘Nice shoes,’ I say, spotting the orange slip-ons as she sits beside me. Her honey blonde hair is unmoving in the wind, yet she pulls her denim jacket a little tighter, as though she feels a chill.

It amuses me that they don’t keep her in the same outfit all the time. They select what she wears each day or at each session. Why bother? Perhaps it’s to show what’s expected of me, or to inspire my own fashion sense, because it’s not as though I can learn from others like me. I am the only girl.

I’m never directly told what to wear. I can choose from any of the items they’ve placed in my wardrobe – mostly vintage garments collected from decades past – geometric prints, bell-bottomed trousers, shoulder-padded jackets or pretty shirt dresses.

Yes, I still have the freedom of choice. Take today. This morning I opted for a floaty turquoise summer dress with a dainty white floral pattern. It falls below my knees, exposing an inch or two of naked flesh above the lace-up brown boots I’ve teamed it with. I’ve seen photos of similar dresses worn with a wedged heel, sandals or espadrilles, but my footwear must always be laced and tied when I’m out on the Drop. No slip-ons for me. Not here.

It isn’t the same for Holly, which irritates me, although only in the sense that it’s a sloppy move on their part. Why implement a regulation, give her to me, then leave a murky area where we aren’t tied to the same rules? It makes a mockery of her, and I don’t like that.

I try not to sigh too heavily, and avert my eyes. I weave my fingers through the ends of my long brown hair, which have become tangled in the breeze.

The Mothers used to style it for me when I was younger. Their designs were too intricate for me to grasp back then but now I have hours to play with my hair and I’ve become quite the expert. I can twist, knot, plait, pin … The possibilities are endless. For which I’m thankful. It gives me something to do. I used to be allowed to experiment with make-up, but now I wear it on special occasions to ensure it’s not wasted. As the demand for these products isn’t what it once was, there are no new supplies. What I have has to last me.

‘So, tomorrow,’ Holly starts, breaking the silence.

‘Wow, straight in there.’ I half laugh, turning to see her pale green eyes twinkling as she stares straight ahead. Sometimes she tiptoes around these subjects, leaving me on edge and defensive as I’m unsure where she’s leading the conversation. Other times, like in class, all focus is on the work. I prefer it when it’s like this. I like her more. It feels more genuine. Almost real.

‘It’s a big day,’ she states, shrugging her slender shoulders.

‘Biggest of my life.’ I nod in agreement, my expression serious now. I want her to think she’s pulled me in and that I’m ready for a deep and meaningful chat. ‘Well, apart from my birth – that was monumental.’

‘No big deal really,’ she replies, trying to hide the smile lurking at the corners of her mouth.

‘Hardly breaking news,’ I quip.

‘Exactly,’ she breathes. ‘Tell me about him then.’

‘I’ve got a whole file on him inside. You can go and have a look if you like. Or you could bring it out here?’ I suggest cheekily, knowing she’s already aware of what’s in it and that she couldn’t bring it out here even if we were allowed objects on the Drop.

‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’ she asks, wide eyes sparkling.

‘Now, why would I do that?’ I laugh, my thoughts turning to the stranger I’m set to meet. Potential Number One. ‘His name is Connor … From the pictures I’ve seen he looks pleasant enough.’

‘That’s good, although looks aren’t everything,’ she replies.

‘Of course not – they can be deceiving.’ The irony is not lost on either of us. I notice her lips thin as she tries to hold in another smile. I love her for that little glimpse of something other.

‘Anything else stand out about this one?’ she asks, looping loose hair behind her ear as though it’s an innocent question between two friends. As though she’s not digging for information and hoping to gain insight into my thoughts – because, as far as I know, they’ve not been able to control, test or tap into them yet. I’d like to keep it that way.

But it’s this Holly, I remind myself. I know from her eyes that she genuinely cares, that she’s more than a messenger sent to manipulate my worries or delights out of me.

‘Hard to tell, from what I’ve seen and read so far. I’ll know more when I meet him in the morning,’ I say, sounding calmer than I feel.

We’ve been working towards this point for years. I’ve always known there’d be three Potentials. Not two or four, but three. A handful of shortlisted males who’ve already proven themselves worthy of the task ahead. I haven’t been told how that was done, but I can only imagine they’ve been tested, trained and challenged as much as I have. Now it’s time for me to have my say. To meet the three men and choose a life mate. A partner. A male to coexist with. I’m not here to repopulate the world in one fell swoop, but rather to give it a gentle reboot, to allow us to start again and right our wrongs. That is the hope and the plan they’ve entrusted me with.

‘And how do you feel about meeting him?’ she asks, her eyes on mine.

Nothing gets past her.

‘Nervous, excited, scared, thrilled, terrified …’ I trail off, my fingers tracing the outline of the rough moon-shaped patch of hard skin on my left wrist. A permanent reminder of how exposed I’ve been in the past, and why I’ve felt safe here, with only the company of those who can be trusted. ‘It’s the unknown.’

Holly smiles, as though she understands instantly. A notion that should be true after more than a decade of being my best friend, but she could never fathom the weight I carry. No one could. In that sense I’m totally alone, no matter what tricks they use to persuade me otherwise. These strangers look at me as though I hold the answers to their prayers, but what if I don’t?

‘He knows all about me. I know nothing about him, aside from what’s in that file,’ I confide, sharing the tip of my concern and trying to ignore the self-doubt underneath.

‘He only knows what he’s been shown too,’ she replies matter-of-factly, reminding me of the times when they’ve stuck a camera in my face and asked me to say a few words to encourage humanity in its plight. I know my sixteenth birthday celebrations were captured last week too. Between the raucous games, singing and dancing, they made me say a few words on how it felt to have reached this milestone. I didn’t complain as I’m used to it. The world has always rejoiced when I add another year to my age.

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 blissfully 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.

The window flashes a hot white. The dorm vibrates. It’s not one of their explosions this time, it’s one of ours. Non-lethal, of course: we’re an endangered species, after all. Fear Gas usually does the trick at dispersing even the most determined Freever, filling them with their most dreaded fear while we watch them run home crying.

I swipe both hands and the window returns to reality. Storm clouds. Always storm clouds. I look for a moment at what we have done to this planet. Idiots. So this is what happens to a world inhabited by fifty years’ worth of men, generations of boys without hope of a future. They destroy it. Of course. Three world wars and this is what’s left.

That was all before I was born.

Before Eve.

By the time Eve came along this was all that was left for our ‘saviour’ to save. I’m too young to remember anything BE, but I’ve read the Before Eve reports. With no future generation to inherit our world, we abused it beyond anyone’s imagining.

Overconsumption of fossil fuels accelerated global warming beyond even the most pessimistic predictions. War. Greed. What we didn’t destroy ourselves the weather finished off for us. The most severe weather conditions in our planet’s history, they claim.

Selfish. It’s in our nature.

Our saviour has a lot of work to do.

A thick cloud presses against the window and I can see my face in the reflection, one of my two faces. This face takes me by surprise: it’s the one I was born with. I run my hand over my cropped head, and my scalp tingles as the sensation relieves some of the stress of a day at work. My eyes are dull from lack of sleep. This face is tired. I’m seeing less and less of him, these days, and more of my second face. Her face.

Holly.

My work hours have almost tripled in preparation for tomorrow and I’m spending most of my time suited up in the studio or, as us pilots prefer to call it, the Cage. It’s where we step out of ourselves and become Holly, Eve’s best friend.

Holly still blows my mind, even after all these years. She is truly state-of-the-art. There’s no other technology like her. Of course, when an organization becomes responsible for the most important human on the planet they gain control of endless resources, unlimited funds to plough into developing anything that may have a positive benefit on Eve’s life. My dad’s technology was on their radar for years but I don’t think even the great Vivian Silva could ever have predicted Holly or that she would become so useful. Social interaction with a female her own age quickly became the key to understanding Eve.

Unlocking her thoughts.

Influencing her.

Controlling her.

There’s no one more influential than your best friend.

Influence/manipulation. That’s a fine line and Holly walks it, I walk it, daily.

Of course Eve knows Holly isn’t real. She’s fully aware of her own uniqueness. Most of us would have trouble telling Holly from a real human, but Eve called it on week one of Holly’s introduction, when we were just five years old.

‘It’s her eyes,’ I can still remember her insisting. ‘They keep changing.’

It’s the only flaw in an otherwise perfect program. Nine out of ten people can’t spot it but Eve is perceptive. Holly’s eyes have to be directly linked to the person controlling her: the pilot – me. My father designed her that way: it’s what makes her so lifelike. It’s what makes you trust her. But no pilot’s eyes are exactly the same. Three of us control Holly, and Eve’s worked out our differences.

Of course we don’t talk about it. It’s forbidden. We never break protocol. When you are piloting Holly, you are Holly. You’re not yourself any more. It’s what we train for.

Sometimes I forget where Bram ends and Holly begins. Maybe that’s what makes me Eve’s favourite. Why I’m the one she opens up to. That must be why I’m given all the difficult missions. Or maybe it’s because I’m the boss’s son. I dunno.

I run my fingers across my head again and my mind wanders. I was just a young boy when Dad first created Holly – he practically designed the hardware around me. Same age as Eve, I was the perfect guinea pig for his latest creation. The EPO went nuts for it. It was a real game-changer. His masterpiece. It put his name on the scientific map. He’s like royalty around here now. Shouldn’t that make me a prince? Hardly. We are knights and Eve is our queen.

Lightning flashes in the distance. From the way the clouds glow blue I know it hit flood level, charging the water and illuminating Central momentarily. I wonder what Eve would make of all this, if she could see it.

What must it be like for her, knowing none of it? Up there in the Dome right now, underneath a perfect starry sky. Soon one of a thousand pre-programmed sunrises is scheduled to wake her and she’ll look out over a blanket of soft white cloud. Her belief that the world is peaceful and wonderful will continue; her faith in the humanity she needs to save will be kept alive for another day. That is the purpose of the Dome. That is Eve’s reality. I guess reality is just the world with which we are presented.

The sirens stop.

It’s over.

I return to my bunk, switch on the reading light and reread Connor’s file. Tomorrow is a big day for us all. The first Potential.

I scan the scientific jargon about his genetic make-up that describes how perfectly suited he is to breed with Eve. It makes it all seem so sterile, so cold. Like she’s some sort of zoo animal on a mating programme. Do I agree with it? No. Is it necessary? Yes. Does my opinion matter? Hell, no.

My concern isn’t so black and white. Human nature. Emotion. Attraction. Love. There is no scientific formula for that and Eve is, well, Eve. She’s never predictable.

Eve.

I realize I’m smiling as my pillow takes me to that unfamiliar place called sleep.

Good luck, Connor. Tomorrow could change the world.

Giovanna and Tom Fletcher

EVE OF MAN

Contents

By Giovanna Fletcher

By Tom Fletcher

Prologue

1

Eve

2

Eve

3

Bram