Eden

Among a crowd of cybernetics, chattering to one another with rigid and unnatural voices, inhumane in the most subtle ways, my group of four runners attempt to blend in. Each of us wear a specific disguise, blinding colors and square wigs. Like the machines, we carry purses and hold fake-tablets up against our chests to mimic the cybers that type as they walk, lost in a technological universe all their own.

Like them, our movement must be rigid and precise. Feet drop to the ground with a little too much force; arms don't swing as they walk.

My best friend Linux stands beside me. His disguise is a pair of teal green slacks, spotless despite the fact that we've been climbing through tunnels and crawling across filthy alleyways. The matching teal shirt bears bright yellow squares, making him stand out in the gray space around us. Only his messy black hair fits in.

"Eden?" he whispers from beside me. I cut my eyes at the scrawny boy through my wig. Linux looks ahead then back at me.

We've reached the top of the city.

This is the highest point of Druxy. Below, the city sprawls out before us, more skyscrapers and streets: a cityscape. The ground is flat and limitless, more metropolis as far as we can see. This is what the world has become: never-ending megacities.

Underground, hundreds of miles of abandoned sewer and water pipes lie, snaking in and out of the river, around the corners, and through the darkest shadows of the city. The access holes litter the city. The thought of the tunnels teaming with life below reminds me of why we are here in the first place and why I'm leading three more Luddites out of our darkness: supplies. Without the medicine and weapons I'm responsible for bringing home today, we may not make it through the year.

We are what remains of a society of humans who came together at the end of the Final War after machines took over. Our founders took the word 'Luddite' from a group of rebels in the nineteenth century who protested the replacement of humans with machines by destroying them. There used to be a lot more of us, a connected web throughout cities across the country. Now, less than sixty humans live in the city of Druxy.

The tunnels also hold my older brother, Cyrus. Unlike us, he would never blend in with this steel world around us. Hand-drawn tattoos cover his body and make him stand out. His high status exempts him from supply runs, no matter how qualified he is. Elders don't risk their lives.

He wouldn't be much good to me anyway considering he panics every time he wears a paralyzer gun. I don't blame him; the electric blue bullets used to give me nightmares too. Especially after the incident.

I glance down at my hand where a string of numbers is written.

"32456982 & 457123"

Not that I need to write them down. I've had them memorized since the first time Cyrus gave them to me.

I pull my sleeve over my hand and whisper the building numbers to myself.

On my left is building number 32456980, which means I have two more to go. I push ahead. Here, the crowds are thinner. We are out of the busy district, moving into the residential area.

My favorite thing about humans is how each one of us is absolutely unique. We have our own quirks and funny habits that sometimes makes no sense at all. Linux, for example, always brushes his hair to the left and gets really angry when someone questions him. I memorize things: words and numbers, mainly. Ever since I learned to read, words jump off pages and glue themselves into my mind.

"Here," I mumble, turning rigidly to my right. Linux nods, walks up the steps, and kneels down. The other people stand with their backs to us, shielding the kneeling boy and me from sight.

"Can you hack that a little faster, Linux?" I whisper, keeping an eye on the skies. It's not unlike AI to watch overhead.

"Be patient, Eden. It's not like I practice this everyday."

I risk looking down at him, where he's typing away with incredible speed on the electronic lock.

"If we get caught--" I hiss, tapping my foot.

"Then, we set off the grenades," he replies, not looking at me. "They can't take us to the Anthros if we are dead."

I raise my eyebrows.

Anthropological Parks, or Anthros as we call them, are the human equivalent of an animal testing facility. From the outside, it resembles a zoo holding humans under large glass domes in fake habitats. Two hundred years ago, scientists used animals for scientific research, which sounds sadistic. Now, the machines conduct experiments on living human subjects in an effort to create safer products for their human host bodies. This way, the host lasts longer and becomes more efficient.

Below the surface, though, the Anthros holds horrors that I can only imagine. Capture leads to eventual harvesting when the human reaches the age of twenty-five.

The Anthros is a two headed snake, venomous on both sides. You either stay human and undergo the trials, or you become a cybernetic right away.

"Got it."

Linux stands up suddenly, pushing his large black glasses up on his nose. The lenses are scratched and cracked, but the frames look fine. When the Luddites found Linux, wandering the streets of Druxy, he was nearly blind. Cyrus dug the glasses out of the scrap metal yard. Linux still squints to see small print, but he knows complaining will get him nowhere, especially considering how lucky it was to find those in the first place.

I go in first, listening to the footsteps as he and the rest file in. The door shuts behind us and seals out all natural light. For a second, I am blind; then, the automatic lights click on, bathing us in their dim yellow light.

Silver boxes are stacked from floor to ceiling around us, with barely enough room for us to walk one behind the other. I check the corners for cameras, but see none.

"Okay, let's split up," I say, scratching my neck where the wig is tickling me. "We are looking for any crates of weapons, medicine, or nonperishable food. This is a weapons storage; so, we probably won't find food. Look for knives, outdated guns, grenades, things like that."

At my command, the people spread out in different directions.

I walk through the boxes, one hand grazing the smooth metal. They are cold to the touch, sending goosebumps up my arms. Barcodes are printed on each box, right above the electronic lock screen. The numbers run through my head, translating automatically into words. I've memorized the first four digits of each group.

5671 is medicine.

4562 is clothing.

3476 is weapons.

Yet, I'm not looking for those things. Everyone else is. I'm looking for 1121.

Books.

My eyes scan over about a dozen different boxes, none of which hold anything remotely important to us. There are boxes of spare parts for the machines, wires, nuts, bolts, and computer chips. I find a box of weapons and call for Linux, who hacks the lock within seconds.

"Anything good?" he asks in a whisper, standing on his tiptoes to see into the box as I root through it.

"AI extensions," I mumble. "We can't operate any of this stuff."

I pull one of the guns out of the box, aiming it at the ceiling. Linux's face twists in confusion as I check to make sure it has a clip. My finger wraps around the trigger. I squeeze, but nothing happens.

"See? It needs a power source," I say, tossing it back into the box. "I don't know about you, but I don't carry a battery in my pocket."

Linux shrugs his shoulders and walks back into the maze as someone else calls his name.

"Look for things that seem prehistoric," I call, watching his shadow disappear behind him.

Several rows later, I smile, eyes falling on my beloved four-digit code starter. I stare at the electronic lock and strain to remember what sequence of numbers Linux uses to hack these. Half a second later, I type the code in with confidence.

The box pops open, and I pull the lid to the side, glancing around to make sure no one heard me. Cyrus doesn't like when I waste time on missions looking for personal items. Yet, from the moment our father taught me how to read, I've always loved books, regardless of how useless everyone else sees them as.

There's something about the papery smell, a mixture of wood and ink. The letters pressed into each page come to life, a moving picture in my brain. When I'm surrounded by nothing more than circuits, wires, never-ending daylight, and the endless abyss of the underground, the stories that I read make me feel human.

I pull out the books one by one, placing them gently into my bag. The box only held about ten books, but the weight on my shoulder is enough to comfort my mind for a while.

I've just placed the lid back on the box when an ear-splitting siren fills the room, making me cover my ears and squint hard. I hear Linux over the sound, screaming obscenities. For a fifteen year-old, he cusses a lot.