The Enclave (21 page)
The questions and attempted rationales tumbled through his mind until they snarled into oblivion and he closed his eyes, too weary to hold on to his train of thought. His head still hurt, though far less than it had, and his lungs ached dully. He wondered if this time the toxins might have finally done some long-term damage as the safety manuals warned—damage to his lungs, skin, or eyes; loss of his teeth; the development of a fatal—or merely grotesque—mutation. What if even now the beginnings of a third eye bulged from his forehead? The notion terrified him. When he finally forced himself to lift exploratory fingers to his brow and found nothing, he relaxed, realizing that was a crazy thought. Toxins didn’t produce the eye. The Breath of the Father did.
Some time later the face of Dr. Xavier appeared in the clear plastic window. He had big rabbit teeth, sunken cheeks, bushy brows, and a thatch of strawlike blond hair sprouting from the top of his head. “Ah, you’ve awakened.” His rubbery visage vanished as he checked the fluid bag on its stanchion, then reappeared. “How do you feel?”
“Worse by far than when I came in here.”
Dr. Xavier snorted. “You’re lucky to be alive, young man. The toxin levels outside were ten times the acceptable amount. External sensors registered the wind but not the toxins until it was right on us. You got a full blast. If you’d not been wearing your suit, you’d have died on the spot. If the Enforcers hadn’t gotten you out as fast as they did, you’d be dead now.”
But the Enforcers hadn’t gotten him out. . . . “Where are those Enforcers, anyway?” Zowan asked. “Did they all make it back in?”
Xavier frowned. “Of course.”
“You aren’t treating them?”
Xavier didn’t answer but stepped again out of Zowan’s view. He felt a tug at the IV in his arm. “What are you doing?” he asked, vaguely alarmed.
“Just releasing your next dose of anti-toxin medication.”
“No!” Zowan cried, recalling his suspicions about the medications. “I don’t want any more.”
Dr. Xavier’s face reappeared in the plastic window, brows arched in surprise. “Zowan, your toxin levels spiked to one hundred percent over the normal limit. . . .”
“I don’t want any more meds. They’re making me sick.”
Xavier’s bushy brows drew down into a frown and his thick lips tightened. “The
toxin exposure
is making you sick.”
“I wasn’t sick until you gave me the meds!” The strength of his voice in accusation startled even Zowan.
Xavier’s face cleared to blandness and his voice became soothing. “Why would you think such a thing, Zowan? I only want to help you. And you are not out of danger yet. Without these medications you will have no protection.”
“They’re making me sick—”
“It’s the poison affecting your brain.”
Zowan felt a burning run up his arm and into his shoulder. Fear electrified him, filling him with the certainty that they were going to kill him. He was the one who had spread the blasphemous thoughts to Andros, and they must have found out. Maybe they’d heard those conversations in the Star Garden. Now they would make him pay for his treacherous words and remove the cancer of doubt that was him from their midst.
With all his strength he sought to hurl himself upright. But he only got as far as his elbows, for his wrists were bound to the bed rails. So were his ankles.
He collapsed back on the mattress, aghast to realize tears were streaming from his eyes. He looked at Dr. Xavier. “Why are you doing this?”
Xavier regarded him sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Zowan. One of the side effects of your exposure is the paranoia. If you can’t manage it, we’ll have to sedate you.”
“No!” The fear came rushing back, and he strained anew at his bonds, shouting imprecations at Dr. Xavier, who stood in the window watching him with sad eyes—and then dissolved into a column of smoke that somehow seeped in around the sealed edges of Zowan’s IV tube, filling his small chamber with darkness. It pressed him into the bed, though he fought it with everything he had—gasping, choking under the weight of it, panicked at the notion it was trying to smother him. . . .
His thoughts scattered, remembering an afternoon in the Star Garden with Terra where he’ d wanted so badly to take her hand, and hadn’t, for fear of Gaias. The Star Garden was replaced by the grotto and the goats. Then a faint clicking. He turned to the rock wall and found the pale face of his bald brother staring at him through a little plastic window, the obscene third eye thankfully lidded.
“You’re lucky you didn’t kill yourself climbing up that cliff,” Gaias said.
“What cliff?”
“The one I told you to come down from.” Gaias frowned at him. “You don’t recall?”
“It was just a steep slope. And I don’t recall you telling me to come down.”
“Why were you up there, anyway?”
“I saw someone. How did you get back into the Enclave?”
“Who did you see?”
Zowan turned his face away, annoyed. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t think you saw anyone. I think you’re lying. Trying to make trouble. Sow doubts. You’re a rebel at heart, Zowan. And you know what happens to rebels. . . .”
Zowan stared at the plastic sheeting overhead.
“A pity about Andros dying.”
The words wrenched Zowan’s head around.
“What?!”
“The Cube killed him. He couldn’t handle the pressure. But he always was a weakling.”
“You’re lying! He’s not dead!”
“He is. And it’s all your fault.”
The plastic window filled with the smoke again, and Gaias vanished.
Andros dead? Yes, he’ d only been in the Cube once, but he was thin and weak and emotionally fragile. And the punishment had been near the highest intensity. It was possible. . . . Crushing grief surged through him, and he began to weep.
Oh, Andros, why did you have to
refuse to say that Affirmation?
Guilt cut him alongside the grief. If only he’d kept his doubts to himself.
For some time he rode the heavy black-oil waves of mourning and self-recrimination. Then he began to wonder if Gaias had said those things just to make him hurt. He heard bells, men talking quietly, the Klaxon again . . . then a chime and the soft female voice alerting the New Edenites that the morning Affirmation would begin in half an hour. It must be Saturday morning. . . .
The sweet, haunting melody of the singing bowls and harps wrapped around him comfortingly. Then a choir burst into song:
“He
is Father, He who saved us. Raise your voices loud and strong; Raise
your voices thanking Him. Raise your voices to Him. . . .”
The God of the Genesis . . . who had made everything and saw that it was good. Who’d promised that the seed of the woman would crush the seed of the serpent. Who’d destroyed the whole world with a flood of water.
Raise your voices to Him. . . .
Smoke rose around him again. Successive melodies wheedled through his consciousness. He heard snatches of the Affirmation as it was offered.
Suddenly Andros’s voice intruded, pleading with him from a long way off, begging him to come and release him from the dark place they had put him in.
“It’s your fault I’m in this place, Zowan. You owe it to
me. You’ve got to come and let me out.”
Zowan puzzled over the words. Was Andros still in the Cube? How could Zowan let him out of that?
Zowan.
Now a new voice spoke, different from the others. Quiet, even . . . but radiating authority and vast power.
Andros spoke again, frantically seeking to draw Zowan’s notice back to him, but the new voice had captured his attention, galvanizing everything within him in a way nothing else ever had. “Who are you?” he asked the voice.
I Am,
was the answer.
You must go from this enclave, Zowan, and
from your people, and from your father’s rule to a land which I will
show you.
Zowan’s heart leapt as he recognized the words. They were almost the same as the words God had spoken to the man Abram in the last numbered section in Zowan’s portion of the
Key Study
pages he’d salvaged.
“You want me to leave the Enclave?” he asked the voice. “Go up to the surface?”
I Am did not answer, and Zowan feared that was all he would get, but he asked again anyway, “Who are you? Are you the Lord?”
I Am.
“I don’t know the way.”
Come out of the darkness, Zowan, and you will find what you
seek.
The voice fell silent. Music drifted into its place, carrying Zowan along for a bit. He heard men talking in another room. . . .
Then a new voice spoke right beside him, shockingly familiar. “It’s all lies, Zowan. There is no poison outside.” A dark form stood outside the plastic, not on the window side, but on the other, so no features could be seen. He didn’t need features. Zowan knew the voice as he knew his own. “Neos? You’re alive?”
“The medications they’re giving you are making you like this. They’re hallucinogens so you’ll discount it all, but it was me you saw outside. And me you’re hearing now. Listen closely and remember. They’ll discharge you Monday morning. Monday night I want you to go to the Star Garden half an hour before curfew, to the fifth level, beside the golden queen. I’ll meet you there. . . .”
Zowan blinked. “Meet me? How? Why?”
“So I can set you free.”
He made Zowan tell it back to him, admonished him to remember. Then he was gone. For a few moments Zowan considered all the meaning in his words, then lost them as he noticed the column of bright pink ants crawling down the pole of his canopy at the foot of his bed and across the sheet toward his face. He watched them in horror and alarm. Just as the first reached his chin, the lights flashed and a siren went off, and all fell into darkness. . . .
Swain’s bimonthly presentation of his Grand Vision for the Kendall-Jakes Longevity Institute was held in the newly completed and already infamous Black Box Theater, situated in the conference center across the campus from the ziggurat. An avant-garde structure, the theater’s exterior was made of colossal red sandstone slabs that rose out of the concrete mass of the building to soar above it. Railed walkways led up from the parking lot to the entrance at the structure’s highest end, where ranks of glass doors intermittently reflected the brilliant orange of an Arizona sunset as they were opened and closed by arriving attendees.
Admirers deemed it a bold, progressive design, its innovative flair an effective backdrop for the cutting-edge programs and performances presented there. Others called it an architectural disaster, a foolish waste of time and money, and nothing but another monument to Swain’s overblown ego. The ziggurat itself was more than enough.
Those in K-J’s employ laughingly called it the Phoenix, for from a distance it was said to resemble a great red bird rising from the desert. As Lacey observed it from the front seat of the employee shuttle van as it bore her and six others down from the zig, she supposed the granite slabs did sort of look like the bent leading edges of wings . . . and it did seem a bit excessive for what it was. On the other hand, it
was
a striking building, winner of several architectural awards. And Swain was an amazing man with amazing accomplishments in the face of great opposition. Why shouldn’t he create something beautiful and innovative for his people?
Besides, she didn’t believe his ego was overblown at all. She still marveled at the fact he had stopped to talk to her. Not only was Swain far more handsome up close than he’d appeared from the back of the room—his eyes were breathtakingly blue—but he was charming and personable, and amazingly down-to-earth. He’ d actually introduced himself to her as if she might not know who he was! Had shaken her hand, talked to her like she was a regular person. In fact, he’d made her feel a lot more than regular; he’ d made her feel greatly valued and specifically chosen for his team. He’ d even claimed to have read her thesis, then commented on it so specifically and extensively, he couldn’t have been lying. She was flabbergasted.
He’d apologized right off for keeping her down in the animal rooms so long. “Though serving in those menial areas
is
something of a rite of passage here, as you probably know,” he’ d added with a smile. “That’s all behind you now, though.”
He told her that after she’ d done a brief stint as research assistant, he’ d like to see her working on her own project. Thus, as she went through the abstracts and studies she was to do so with an eye to anything that might spawn her own inquiry. “If you see nothing that piques your interest, come to me and we’ll talk.” He’ d paused. “Will you be attending the presentation tonight?”
When she said she was, he promised to keep his eye out for her, then said good day, assuring her they’d “talk again soon.”
He’ d left her so astonished she could hardly believe it had happened. But after he’d left and Jade came over to marvel with her, she’ d gotten so excited she’d had to go off to the bathroom to be alone to grin and laugh and dance around squealing like a fool. Where last night everything had turned to darkness, gloom, and disaster, this new day had dawned with hope and luminous promise.
She thought of how Gen had assured her they had plans for her, how even Reinhardt had mentioned it—though his interpretation was disgusting and insulting; she could no longer believe Swain was any of what Reinhardt had implied. No, having met him face-to-face, having shaken his hand and looked into his eyes as he spoke to her, she knew he was genuine. And given the preparations that went into everything at the Institute, as well as Swain’s reputation for being obsessively thorough in vetting his hires, she thought for the first time that they really did have plans. That they really had seen something in her that others had not, and had indeed chosen her to fill a very specific niche. A thought that filled her with a warm blush of confidence and self-assurance the likes of which she’ d not felt in a long, long time. Now, at last, the hope for change in her life seemed on the verge of being fulfilled.
The van pulled up to an unloading zone, and the driver got out and came around to open her door and the side door behind her.
