Children of Eden (6 page)

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.

His hand twitches toward the radio mic clipped to his shoulder, but he doesn't press the button to call his backup. Instead he says to me, “Don't move.” His voice is very low.

Like hell I won't move! Anger is still foremost in the confusing mix of emotions, and I look at him in disbelief. “Really?” I ask. “Is
that
what I should do?”

Then—I can't believe myself—I shove him as hard as I can with both of my hands, sending him staggering backward. I whirl to run . . . and find myself face-to-face with a securitybot.

Unlike the small, innocuous helper robots like cleanbots and ferrybots, the securitybots are tall, jointed, angular, slightly primate in their movements and stance. They don't look like humans—they're metal and circuits, without skin or expression. But still, there's a sinister humanity to them. As if a machine tried to make a human and it all went horribly wrong.

These are the bots that cruise Eden diligently, searching out any kind of violation of the EcoPan directives. Most of the time they police things like waste, or vices that might corrupt the gene pool, or destruction of public property. But they're also on the lookout for more serious threats, such as members of criminal gangs, or the rumored heretical sects that believe an ancient folklore stating that humans should have dominion over the creatures of the Earth.

And, I'm sure, for second children.

This time I act more sensibly. I duck sharply to the side as the securitybot begins its scan of me. Maybe I was fast enough that it didn't get a thorough scan. It might not have seen my face. But the young Greenshirt certainly did.

“Stop!” he shouts, and launches into a tackle that misses as I twist away. He catches the securitybot instead and they go down in a tangle of metal and flesh. I don't pause to thank my lucky stars, but dash off into the crowd. A nearby concert has just ended, and I quickly lose myself in the masses spilling out of the theater.

I've been prey all my life, but I've never been hunted. Without the practice or natural instinct, I have to think through my evasion. At first it's easy, and I slip through the crowds that part indulgently before me. Everyone is yielding and polite, because so far they think I'm one of them. I see smiles, and one older woman calls out after me, “Take it easy, kiddo—the party will wait for you!”

But any moment the Greenshirt will have scrambled to his feet to pursue me, and the securitybot will have flashed whatever data he grabbed from me and sent it throughout all Eden. The hunt will be on. And then, every resident will be my enemy.

I think I've gotten far enough away that I can slow a little bit. Running is attracting too much attention. My best bet is probably to just blend in with the crowd. Half of the people are about my age, teens or in their early twenties, and a lot of them are dressed more or less like me, in the student uniforms that are the hallmark of every young person whether they're in or out of class. Each school has its own color, and the outfits—baggy pants, a sleek, tight, stretchy shirt, and in tonight's chilly weather, a wide-shouldered jacket—mark a young person's neighborhood and friends instantly. Now
they school like garishly colored fish. Ash's uniform (which I'm wearing now) is subtle and beautiful, the shimmering gold of desert sand to match his school's name: Kalahari. But the Macaws are scarlet, the students at Iris wear a vibrant blue-purple, and the Cherry Blossoms are a strong, sweet pink. I'm glad Ash's uniform is among the more quiet . . . but I'm glad I'm dressed to fit in.

Cautiously, I sneak a backward glance. To my surprise, I see nothing out of the ordinary. No signs of pursuit, no commotion. There's no shouting, no flashing lights. Surely the young Greenshirt has alerted his comrades by now.

I keep walking, briskly but steadily, along the entertainment circle. I probably should leave this neighborhood, slipping down one of the radial streets to a new ring. But it feels too dangerous to head directly home. Without a lens implant to scan, they can't know who I am, who my family is. I don't dare take the chance of leading the authorities directly to my home.

Or I could branch outward, away from the Center, toward the outer rings. I've studied maps of Eden, and I'm pretty confident that I could navigate through the rings and radii that make up this huge city. But simply being in this crowd is incredibly nerve-racking—and these are highly civilized inner circle people who are well educated, wealthy, and polite. As you get farther from the Center, though, the well-maintained single-family homes and brightly lit shops gradually turn to crowded high-rises where the middle class live, and crowded sidewalks where the pedestrians will trample you to get to their offices on time. Or so I've heard from Ash, who has only rarely been more than a few circles away from home.

Beyond that, in the farthest-flung outer circles near the desert wasteland, I would not dare to go.

So I stick to this entertainment circle, walking around its periphery, attaching myself unobtrusively first to one group
of people, then another, trying to look like I'm a natural part of it all. Could it be possible that there is no pursuit? Maybe I flinched fast enough that the securitybot didn't get a clean scan, or it was damaged when the clumsy Greenshirt knocked it down. Maybe the Greenshirt hit his head and couldn't set off the alarm.

I'm tired, from my earlier run, from stress, and mostly, I think, from anger. Fury, I've just discovered, is incredibly draining.

Along the edge of the gently curving walkway there's a bench for two molded in the shape of a tiger, fashioned so the beautiful orange-and-black animal seems to curl its long striped body protectively around the sitters. I perch on one side, thinking about the empty seat beside me. I try to look like I'm just waiting for someone, like I'm not completely alone in this sea of people. The smile I'm attempting feels tight, but I scan the crowd as if I'm searching for my own particular friend. What if someone meets my eye and smiles back? What if they break from their own group—because everyone seems to be traveling in a pack—and join me? They might sit, and say hello, and look into my eyes . . .

I blink and turn my head down, looking at my hands clenched tightly in my own lap. Tonight is not the time for finding a friend.

Because I'm looking down, I miss danger approaching. Which is probably just as well. If I'd seen it coming, I would have panicked and bolted. This way, though, they're practically on top of me before I notice them, and there's nothing I can do but stay still and innocuous.

Two Greenshirts are walking slowly along the sidewalk right toward me. I look down again quickly, but not before I make fleeting eye contact with one of the Greenshirts. It's the same one from before. My heart races, and I can't move.
I know what's coming next. He'll shout out a warning and they'll both pile on me, drag me to the Center, and then . . .

But nothing happens.

They keep walking slowly toward me.

I sneak another glance. The young Greenshirt with the pale fringe of hair is looking away from me now. He
has
to have seen me! What's going on?

“Did that bot signal turn out to be anything, Rook?” the other man asks, pausing right in front of me. He's older, and has gold stripes on his sleeves.

“No, sir,” the younger one says. “I was standing right next to it and didn't see anything out of the ordinary.”

I can't believe it. Why is this Greenshirt lying? Why doesn't he say what he saw?

“Must have just been a glitch then,” the sergeant says. “There's no record that it actually scanned anyone. Probably nothing, but stay alert anyway. Look at everyone closely. Don't let the smallest detail slip by.” He starts deliberately scanning the crowd. They're so close that if I wanted to, I could reach out and touch their gear. Since lethal guns have been outlawed since the founding of Eden, they carry nonlethal weapons that shoot charged plasma, with a current strong enough to bring a human target to their knees.

The younger man's eyes seem to flick my way swiftly, but I can't be sure. I feel like I'm going to pass out. The sergeant begins to turn toward me.

“Huh,” Rook suddenly says as a thought seems to strike him. “A glitch, did you say? EcoPan controls the securitybots. Didn't think the EcoPan ever had glitches.”

I gasp as his commanding officer hits him, a hard punch to the solar plexus that makes him double over. “If I ever hear that kind of filth coming out of your mouth again, you'll be off the force.” Then he makes a sign I've seen in my les
sons on Civics vids: a closed fist rising up the center line of his body, spreading to an open hand, palm inward, when he reaches his face. It is a symbol of a seed burgeoning into life. The sergeant bows his head briefly as he makes it.

“Forgive me, sir,” the young Greenshirt mumbles, and the pair moves on.

My heart seems to drop into my stomach, and I think I'm going to be sick. What on Earth just happened? Why didn't that Greenshirt Rook report me? Greenshirts are the first—and most vicious—line of defense against any threat to Eden. He should have pounced on me the second he saw me, beat me to the ground, taken me into custody . . .

And when his sergeant was about to look right at me, he deliberately blasphemed against the EcoPan, earning his commander's wrath, and immediately distracting him so he wouldn't turn in my direction.

I sit frozen for a minute more, because I don't think my legs will work right now. I watch the people walk by, flights of birds in bright feathers. None of them knows what I am. But none of them knows
who
I am, either. I'm safe but alone. And I'll always be alone—until I have my new identity and I'm no longer
me
.