Elites of Eden (Children of Eden #2)(12)

The cultivation spire may be functional, but tonight it is beautiful. The twisting semi-helix of the tubes looks like a sculpture, made only to please the eye. I stop abruptly, looking up in wonder at the massive structure, and someone bumps me from behind.

“Oh, hey,” a boy about Ash’s age says, and I think I see quick recognition in his eyes. I lower my own and turn away. Peripherally I see him shrug and move on.

The brief encounter frightens me. I don’t know if I can do this. A stranger says “hey” and I feel like running away, or taking a swing at him, or curling up in a ball. What’s the right response? I feel my heart fluttering in my chest, and my breath is fast and shallow. The crowd is getting thicker as I near the entertainment circle. Please, I silently beg the mob. Don’t look at me. Just let me watch you, pretend I’m part of the crowd. I feel like if anyone else tries to talk to me I’ll break down completely.

But despite my growing anxiety, my feet keep propelling me forward.

The lights in my home circle are subtle and beautiful at night, pale green and mercury-colored, gently swirling to maintain an air of calmness and safety in the elite residential district. Here, though, light is ornament, statement, and above all, glaring, vibrant color.

I’ve seen animated Eco-history vids of fields of brilliant wildflowers, of forests painted red and gold in the autumn, of bright blue oceans capped with foamy white waves. The color of Eden’s most snazzy entertainment circle eclipses them all. The city designers have created a panorama of hues that are dizzying to my eyes. I wonder if they have the same effect on everyone else. Maybe they’re used to them. Maybe they don’t really see them anymore.

It’s beautiful, but a cold kind of beauty. I think of the natural splendors the lights remind me of, the things none of us will ever see. I guess this is the wild landscape of Eden, the human environment until the world heals.

I’m in the thick of it all now. There’s a club on my right. Strange, exciting music comes from inside, and pulsing strobes in a rainbow of colors. I move past it, slyly peeking in to see people gyrating, their arms raised above their heads as they dance. The next place is a more sedate theater with a marquee promising a sophisticated comedy. I flinch when I see the uniformed usher at the door. But no, his uniform is kelly-green with brass buttons, only superficially like a Greenshirt uniform.

I hear raised voices and for a second I almost break into a run. But it is just a crowd of young people arguing happily about something. They’re shouting, but smiling, and I just stare at them. Until I remember my odd eyes. Then I turn away.

I need a break, just a short respite from all this stimulation. Is there a place where I can see without being seen?

I spy a narrow alleyway between buildings. I know from Ash that these are conduits for cleanbots and ferrybots, the ubiquitous metal robots that zip through Eden. I can see a cleanbot out on the street now, a squat rolling chunk of metal that’s vacuuming up everything from garbage to strands of hair and shed skin cells. It will all be taken to a reclamation center and reused in some way. A sleeker silver ferrybot toots to warn pedestrians of its passing as it scoots along with a delivery box from New Leaf Savory Chapati, which Ash tells me is the most popular takeout restaurant. But so far none of them have ducked down my alley, and I’m safe in the shadows. For the moment.

Eden is all so big, so overwhelming! Here in my nook, though, I can experience it in a sliver, which makes it easier. People walk past, and for a fraction of a second I spy on their lives. It’s just enough, a taste.

There’s a couple arm in arm, their heads bent close. He’s whispering something to her, and as they wink out of sight I hear her laugh. Next comes a larger group, men in identical jerseys, members of some kind of team. I get a whiff of the strange masculine scent of their bodies, and it makes me take a half step forward before sinking back against the wall. Behind them is a giggling gaggle of girls. I hear them commenting on the men in front of them. “Nice teezak,” one says with a leer. Another whistles, low and appreciative.

None of them so much as glance my way, which makes me both grateful and sad.





WHAT’S THE USE of being out here, I berate myself, if you’re hiding in an alley the whole time? Go out into the light and color. Are you really risking your security, maybe your very life, on this adventure, only to spend it skulking in the shadows?

Maybe, I answer myself. I feel pulled in two directions, timid and bold at the same time. I want, desperately, to interact with people. At the same time, I’m nervous and tongue-tied and certain that I’ll make a fool of myself.

What’s wrong with me that I worry marginally more about social humiliation than about being caught by the authorities?

But anger trumps fear—always. I’m still fuming with the injustice of actually being a first child and still being condemned. Just go out there, I order myself. Take what is yours.

I step around the corner . . . and bump hard into the broad chest of a Greenshirt.

I know, even as I react, that I’m doing the wrong thing. Act normal. But I don’t know what normal is. I look up at him, gasping, terrified, my wide eyes staring directly into his, giving me away at a glance.

He’s a new recruit, I think, because for a long moment he just stares back. He’s a lot bigger and wider than me, but he looks awfully young, not much past twenty, with fair, fine hair in a short fringe on his forehead peeking out beneath his helmet. His name is embroidered on his chest: Rook. He takes a deep breath, and his mouth works as if he’s about to speak. I can tell he doesn’t believe his own eyes as they look into mine. He has trained for this, I can practically hear him thinking. But he never thought he’d actually come across a second child.