Children of Eden
Page 34
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Heat hits my face like a slap, and I stagger back, turning my face away from the glare. I look into the cool shade of the bean trees to give my eyes time to adjust . . . and suddenly I think I know why I couldn’t see the beanstalks from Eden. Why no one can see them.
They’re camouflaged.
Not in a broken-pattern kind of way. When I look at the bean trees nearest to me, I can see them very clearly. But as I look down the row of them, they gradually vanish from my sight. Only the slightest imperfection lets me realize that the trees aren’t just in this one patch. A bit out and the trees look a little fuzzy. Past that, there is a slight metallic shimmer. Then a little farther, and I can see a strange double vision—both the bean trees and the sky beyond them.
I have to stare and pace, move backward and forward across the burning sands to realize that each individual leaf, each stalk, is projecting an almost seamless image of the landscape behind it, as it would look if the trees weren’t there. Like each tree is a datablock showing me an image.
When I was in the forest there was no illusion. Out here, I can just tell it exists. If I was only a little bit farther away, I wouldn’t have any idea the bean trees were here at all.
How can all of Eden not know that these beanstalks are out here? All my life, I thought I was the only secret Eden was hiding. Now I don’t know what to think about my perfect city.
But now what? I can’t go back, at least not for a while. Maybe after dark I can creep back and make my way to the breadline.
I turn to find a shady spot underneath the synthetic bean trees, away from the desert heat that is already threatening to blister my skin. It’s a dramatic change, like stepping from an oven to a refrigerator. There must be a forty-degree difference between the forest and the desert, in just a couple of steps. In addition to collecting energy from the sun, does this artificial forest shield Eden from the heat of the wasteland the rest of Earth has become?
Suddenly, I think I hear footsteps. I can’t be sure, though. Maybe the mechanical beanstalks are just moving. The sound is soft, stealthy, just the barest crunch. If the rest of the world wasn’t so hushed I never would have heard it. I can’t see anyone yet, but the huge trees are spaced widely enough that they don’t offer much cover. In just a few seconds I’ll be able to see whoever it is . . . and they’ll see me.
I can’t hide in the forest. It’s too open. I’m too hurt and exhausted to outrun anyone, even a chubby new recruit.
So I make the impossible choice. The deadly choice. With a last gasp of cool shady air I limp into the desert and hope whoever is after me isn’t foolish enough to follow me.
Funny that survival might hinge on being stupider than your enemy.
Within seconds my lungs are burning, scorched. The air is so dry the heat rises up in visible waves around me. It sucks the moisture from my body, and sweat beads and dries almost instantly. My eyes become so dry that my lids stick to my eyeballs on each blink with a gritty feel. Breathing through my nose helps my parched mouth, but it does nothing for the fact that my body temperature seems to be rising with each step.
But I press on, because survival somehow feels less important right now than not getting caught. I spent my life behind a wall. I won’t be a prisoner again. Even if they kill me immediately after capture, even a moment of captivity would be too much. I’d rather die.
That’s big talk, isn’t it?
At first it is easy going. The sand is almost springy under my feet, and such a novel sensation after synthetic surfaces that I almost enjoy it. It cushions my aching feet as I hobble along.
After a while, though, the sand becomes loose and deep. My feet sink past the ankles with each step and I drag along like I’m wading through water. I fall, and the sand scalds my hands, but I drag myself up and forge on through this merciless sea of sand.
I start to sink deeper with every step, but in my dehydrated, almost delirious state I don’t realize exactly what is happening. First my feet feel cool, and the sensation is so pleasant I just stop and enjoy it for a moment before moving on. But when I try to pull my foot out the ground seems to grab it and hold on tight. With a supreme effort I pull my leg up and take another step. When I pull my foot out, I can see that the sand is clinging peculiarly to my shoe. I try to brush it off, but it sticks to my hand, too. It almost feels wet, but when I rub a little between my fingertips there’s no moisture.
Baffled, I try to take another step, but it is my bad ankle, and when I pull, it feels like I’m pulling my foot off. I have to bite back a scream. The sand feels like it’s sucking me down! Panicking, I turn, but my body moves while my feet stay still, and I topple in slow motion. I try to catch myself with my hands, but there’s nothing solid. They slide right through the sand to the quicksand below and I pitch down face-first. The muck fills my mouth and nose as I thrash and gasp for breath; it blinds me.
Did I just say I’d rather die than be captured? In the space of an instant I learn better.
I thrash and kick and fail, and manage to get my head above the quicksand for one desperate, blessed breath before sinking down again. I can’t swim; I’ve never been in water deeper than my bath. But I think even if I could, it wouldn’t help in this strange, clinging sand. This is thick, clawing at me. It feels like a living thing trying to swallow me.
Like the Earth itself eating me up.
I can feel my body growing cool and soft. I stop struggling. For a second it almost feels good, to give up, to hang suspended here, to know that I don’t have to run, or fight, or be lonely ever again.
Then something catches my arm, pulling me up. I’m being hauled out of the pit. Someone lays me on the scorching sand and I don’t care if it’s a Greenshirt with a gun to my head. I would kiss his boots if I had the strength, just because he gave me one last breath.
A hand wipes muck away from my mouth, my nose, almost tenderly. My eyes are still crusted with muck, and I can’t open them. My head is swimming, my lungs convulsing so I feel like I still can’t breathe.
Just before I pass out, I hear someone say, “You’re a hard girl to save.”
THE WORLD COMES back to me one piece at a time. In the beginning I can’t move. I hardly even know I have a body. Am I dead? Sounds return before anything else, before I can even feel my own skin. First there’s a rushing, a pulsing in my ears. I imagine the ocean sounds like that, surging to the shore in an endless cycle. My blood is like an ocean, the tides slowly rising in my veins. I lie in darkness, with no real sensation of my body.
They’re camouflaged.
Not in a broken-pattern kind of way. When I look at the bean trees nearest to me, I can see them very clearly. But as I look down the row of them, they gradually vanish from my sight. Only the slightest imperfection lets me realize that the trees aren’t just in this one patch. A bit out and the trees look a little fuzzy. Past that, there is a slight metallic shimmer. Then a little farther, and I can see a strange double vision—both the bean trees and the sky beyond them.
I have to stare and pace, move backward and forward across the burning sands to realize that each individual leaf, each stalk, is projecting an almost seamless image of the landscape behind it, as it would look if the trees weren’t there. Like each tree is a datablock showing me an image.
When I was in the forest there was no illusion. Out here, I can just tell it exists. If I was only a little bit farther away, I wouldn’t have any idea the bean trees were here at all.
How can all of Eden not know that these beanstalks are out here? All my life, I thought I was the only secret Eden was hiding. Now I don’t know what to think about my perfect city.
But now what? I can’t go back, at least not for a while. Maybe after dark I can creep back and make my way to the breadline.
I turn to find a shady spot underneath the synthetic bean trees, away from the desert heat that is already threatening to blister my skin. It’s a dramatic change, like stepping from an oven to a refrigerator. There must be a forty-degree difference between the forest and the desert, in just a couple of steps. In addition to collecting energy from the sun, does this artificial forest shield Eden from the heat of the wasteland the rest of Earth has become?
Suddenly, I think I hear footsteps. I can’t be sure, though. Maybe the mechanical beanstalks are just moving. The sound is soft, stealthy, just the barest crunch. If the rest of the world wasn’t so hushed I never would have heard it. I can’t see anyone yet, but the huge trees are spaced widely enough that they don’t offer much cover. In just a few seconds I’ll be able to see whoever it is . . . and they’ll see me.
I can’t hide in the forest. It’s too open. I’m too hurt and exhausted to outrun anyone, even a chubby new recruit.
So I make the impossible choice. The deadly choice. With a last gasp of cool shady air I limp into the desert and hope whoever is after me isn’t foolish enough to follow me.
Funny that survival might hinge on being stupider than your enemy.
Within seconds my lungs are burning, scorched. The air is so dry the heat rises up in visible waves around me. It sucks the moisture from my body, and sweat beads and dries almost instantly. My eyes become so dry that my lids stick to my eyeballs on each blink with a gritty feel. Breathing through my nose helps my parched mouth, but it does nothing for the fact that my body temperature seems to be rising with each step.
But I press on, because survival somehow feels less important right now than not getting caught. I spent my life behind a wall. I won’t be a prisoner again. Even if they kill me immediately after capture, even a moment of captivity would be too much. I’d rather die.
That’s big talk, isn’t it?
At first it is easy going. The sand is almost springy under my feet, and such a novel sensation after synthetic surfaces that I almost enjoy it. It cushions my aching feet as I hobble along.
After a while, though, the sand becomes loose and deep. My feet sink past the ankles with each step and I drag along like I’m wading through water. I fall, and the sand scalds my hands, but I drag myself up and forge on through this merciless sea of sand.
I start to sink deeper with every step, but in my dehydrated, almost delirious state I don’t realize exactly what is happening. First my feet feel cool, and the sensation is so pleasant I just stop and enjoy it for a moment before moving on. But when I try to pull my foot out the ground seems to grab it and hold on tight. With a supreme effort I pull my leg up and take another step. When I pull my foot out, I can see that the sand is clinging peculiarly to my shoe. I try to brush it off, but it sticks to my hand, too. It almost feels wet, but when I rub a little between my fingertips there’s no moisture.
Baffled, I try to take another step, but it is my bad ankle, and when I pull, it feels like I’m pulling my foot off. I have to bite back a scream. The sand feels like it’s sucking me down! Panicking, I turn, but my body moves while my feet stay still, and I topple in slow motion. I try to catch myself with my hands, but there’s nothing solid. They slide right through the sand to the quicksand below and I pitch down face-first. The muck fills my mouth and nose as I thrash and gasp for breath; it blinds me.
Did I just say I’d rather die than be captured? In the space of an instant I learn better.
I thrash and kick and fail, and manage to get my head above the quicksand for one desperate, blessed breath before sinking down again. I can’t swim; I’ve never been in water deeper than my bath. But I think even if I could, it wouldn’t help in this strange, clinging sand. This is thick, clawing at me. It feels like a living thing trying to swallow me.
Like the Earth itself eating me up.
I can feel my body growing cool and soft. I stop struggling. For a second it almost feels good, to give up, to hang suspended here, to know that I don’t have to run, or fight, or be lonely ever again.
Then something catches my arm, pulling me up. I’m being hauled out of the pit. Someone lays me on the scorching sand and I don’t care if it’s a Greenshirt with a gun to my head. I would kiss his boots if I had the strength, just because he gave me one last breath.
A hand wipes muck away from my mouth, my nose, almost tenderly. My eyes are still crusted with muck, and I can’t open them. My head is swimming, my lungs convulsing so I feel like I still can’t breathe.
Just before I pass out, I hear someone say, “You’re a hard girl to save.”
THE WORLD COMES back to me one piece at a time. In the beginning I can’t move. I hardly even know I have a body. Am I dead? Sounds return before anything else, before I can even feel my own skin. First there’s a rushing, a pulsing in my ears. I imagine the ocean sounds like that, surging to the shore in an endless cycle. My blood is like an ocean, the tides slowly rising in my veins. I lie in darkness, with no real sensation of my body.
