Fear Me Not (The EVE Chronicles) Page 4

  “It is imperative to remember that we are only temporary guests on your planet. We will leave when our ship is repaired sufficiently and impede upon you no longer. Ideally, by the time you have children of your own, we will be long gone.”

  She turns back to the board. “You must know the following for the final exam this semester; Gutters are not dangerous. Despite the rumors, Gutters have no special abilities, or enhanced senses. We are in human bodies, after all. We are as you are. Lastly, Gutters will always do their best to respect the human culture, and we ask the same from you.”

  No one knows what to say. Respect? There can be no respect when they’re so painfully different from us. We write it down and try not to think about what it really means, or what she’s really asking of us.

  I raise my hand. Ms. Gianca points to me.

  “Yes, Ms. Hale?”

  “Your noses - you guys have really good smelling, right?”

  Ms. Gianca looks shocked, but quickly regains her composure. I press on.

  “You said you had no extra powers or senses. But you do. So why did you lie?”

  The quiet in the room becomes heavy. Students look to each other warily, shooting looks at Ms. Gianca, who laughs and fails to cover the nervous jingle in the sound.

  “Ms. Hale, we do not have any extra senses. We are as normal as you. We are on equal footing.”

  “But –”

  “On page 48,” she interrupts quickly. “You’ll find an essay question. I’d like for you to write a two-page paper on this question, specifically –”

  I tune her out and glower at the textbook. Why did she lie?

  Or is Shadus actually lying?

  The window shows the front lawn and the steel fence around the perimeter of the school. It isn’t to keep us in. It’s to keep the world out. Today, the protestors went home early, wrappers and water bottles as their footprints. Discarded signs litter the lawn; Alien Scum Endangering Our Sons, Bring Our Kids Home, Racial Purity>Money.

  I hug my books to my chest and shuffle to study hall. We aren’t the first teenage EVEs. It’s not the fact we’re EVEs the people outside are mad about. It’s the fact we’re living and learning alongside Gutters.

  The library is all dark wood and looming shelves. Gutter and EVE pairs litter the tables - the librarian had gone around the room and corralled us to sit beside our assigned culture partner. Shadus sits across from me, white shirt sleeves rolled up and showing the delicate skin of his wrist. He leafs through a book, sunlight reflecting in his ruby eyes.

  “Ms. Gianca said you guys don’t have good smelling,” I say. Shadus doesn’t even look up.

  “Ms. Gianca is a liar.”

  “Why would she lie?”

  “Because they’ve been told to lie by the sotho. Humans must never know what we’re truly capable of. Otherwise, we’d be in danger. We’d be locked behind more bars than just the reservation.”

  “So why did you tell me? I could tell someone and get you guys in trouble.”

  “Don’t be dense. I’ve studied your history. No one believes a teenage human’s word.”

  I laugh for the first time in this place - a warm, true laugh. Shadus looks alarmed.

  “Is something humorous?”

  “Yeah,” I wipe my eyes. “It’s hilarious, because it’s absolutely true. And shitty. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t hilarious.”

  He frowns and turns the page of his book.

  “Something wrong, Creeps?”

  He blinks. “Creeps?”

  “Yeah, it’s a nickname. Ever heard of them?”

  “Nicknames are something humans give to those they feel affection for.”

  “Well, yeah. But that’s obviously not the case here.”

  “Obviously,” he drawls.

  “If you don’t wanna say their real name, nicknames are viable.”

  “Viable?” Shadus looks up, a bare wisp of a smirk pulling at his mouth. It’s the first positive emotion I’ve seen him express. “Look who’s using big words now.”

  I bury the laugh threatening to come out in my notebook. I can’t believe he and I are having a civil conversation. We watch the librarian move between shelves, the sun catching his wild hair.

  “Sha,” Shadus says finally. “In our language, it means ‘herald’. Dus - ‘light of a new day’.”

  “I thought you said you used smell-language?”

  “We use both vocalizations and scents, but rely much more on scents, with vocalizations as modifiers.”

  “So, you’re the herald of the sun-”

  “- Sunrise.” He finishes, nodding.

  “Victoria’s easier. Victor - you know that word, right?”

  “Old English for ‘he who wins’,” Shadus says automatically.

  “Right. Slap an ‘a’ on it and it becomes a girl’s name.”

  “She who wins,” He tries. I nod.

  “Most people call me Vic.”

  “Names are the same everywhere in the universe, I think,” He muses. “They always have strange yet hopeful meanings. Every parent wishes for a child to be prosperous and happy, so they give them such names.”

  I nod. “My Mom named me.”

  “My mother named me as well.”

  “Where is she? Back on the reservation?”

  “Dead,” He flips a page in his book. “She died in our crash to Earth. She died shielding me.”

  His red eyes dull to a dark wine color, and the stiff posture he always has loosens, as though something heavy is on his shoulders. His honesty jolts me down to my core, down to my EVE organ. Being honest deserves honesty in return.

  “My mom’s dead, too. Stampede during a Gutter protest.”

  He looks up, eyes briefly flickering with something I can’t pinpoint. Relief?

  “She died protecting you then, as well.”

  “What?” I wrinkle my nose. “No. She died because of you. Because of your people.”

  “She was protesting us. She was protesting the danger we represented. Any mother would want to protect her children – you - from unknown, strange newcomers.”

  It’s been years. But this new way of looking at it snaps something hard and bitter in my decade-old armor, and I don’t know if I like it. Shadus’s eyes burn into mine.

  “Yes, she died because of us. But she died protecting you. Never doubt that.”

  There’s a silence as I try to piece together my broken voice.

  “Great. It’s real great you think you can just waltz in here and tell me why my own Mom died. That’s a great fucking way to make friends.”

  “I’m not trying to make friends. I’m an Executioner. My duty is to deal death. Friends don’t tend to stick around when your job is to behead people.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel sorry for you?” I snarl.

  “It’s supposed to warn you,” he says, voice gravelly and low. “These conversations must remain light. We must not become friendly. Bad things will happen to the Gutter and human who openly become friends first. Do you not understand that? We are being watched. This entire school is being watched.”

  “Yeah, duh, the paparazzi is right outside the front gate –”

  “Not by the paparazzi outside,” He interrupts. “But by people inside. Teachers. Faculty. Other students. Not everyone here is dedicated to building bridges. Some are here to burn the bridges right when they begin to be built.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What are you talking about? No one’s plotting anything. This isn’t a spy movie. I mean, yeah, it won’t be sunshine and rainbows – ”

  “No. It won’t. It will be death, and blood. I’ve seen it enough in my life to know when it is coming.”

  “What the fuck are you trying to say?”

  The bell rings. He stands, looming over my chair with a book under one arm, his searing glare piercing my suspicious one.

  “I am saying this is a bloodbath waiting to happen. Don’t trust anyone here. Not even me.”

  “Wasn’t pl
anning to.”

  “Smart girl.” He smirks again, and walks off.

  3. The Emperor

  The sky is an ice-blue flower. I watch it through the office window, sitting on the table while the Gutter school doctor readies a needle. The EVE scar under my ribs pulses with my anxiety. I’m here in the nurse’s office for the mandatory monthly EVE checkup.

  “This is a simple procedure. There will be a small amount of pain.” Dr. Yulan looks me in the eyes, his gray ones pale. The school nurse is a Gutter. Of course he is.

  “Can we just get it over with, already?”

  Yulan smiles. “If that’s what you wish.”

  He swipes my skin with a cotton ball of tingly stuff. The needle prods in and sucks up blood. My arm goes cold. He bandages the tiny bleeding hole.

  “I do hope that wasn’t too painful.”

  “Masterfully done, good sir,” I imitate his stiff accent. He holds up the needle filled with my blood and writes something about it. His long fingers move gracefully over the paper. When I first saw Yulan, I mistook him for a woman at a distance. With his thin nose and fine lips, he’s the most effeminate, no, most beautiful, Gutter I’ve seen so far. His dark hair is kept in a ponytail that trails down his back. It suits him.

  “You’re an Illuminator, aren’t you?” I ask. Yulan looks at me over his thin glasses.

  “Did you cover factions in Gutter Culture class already?”

  “Nah. My roommate told me. Raine. You know her, right? She’s your sotho.”

  “Yes,” Yulan nods. “Her family is very dear to me. I was a poor farm hand in my childhood. Raine’s father visited the farm on one of his tours, and saw potential in me. He paid for my schooling. I owe them a very great debt.”

  They obviously chose Yulan as school nurse for a reason. He has a disarming way of smiling - it wipes your anxiety clean. His voice is soft and barely hits a normal volume. It’s soothing. He’s not creepy in the slightest.

  “Your blood looks clean,” He says, after running the vial of it through a blue-light machine of some sort that looks like a rice cooker. “The EVE organ is taking very well to you, and it’s filling up quite nicely. Do you have any complaints, or concerns?”

  “It twinges sometimes, when I’m feeling real angry or scared. But the EVE clinic dudes told me that’s normal.”

  “It is. But if those twinges become painful and frequent , that would be cause for you to come see me, and for us to do an examination. Those are warning signs of a rupture.”

  A rupture is when the EVE organ bursts due to high emotional stress. It’s rare, but fatal. We’re encouraged to stay calm and get lots of rest, but other than that it’s an extreme emergency that can only be treated, not prevented. It’s the thing Dad was most worried about, until the doctors told him there was a point two percent chance of it ever happening to me.

  “I know, I know.” I sigh. “They told me about ruptures at the clinic. I’ll be careful. Can I go now?”

  “In a moment. Let’s go over your measurements again. Height?” He asks.

  “Six foot seven,” I tease. He scribbles ‘five foot nine’.

  “Blood type?”

  “ABCDEFG.”

  He puts his pen down. “You don’t have to be so evasive, Victoria. This information is confidential. I need it in order to treat you more accurately.”

  “Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood. It’s hard to stay happy in this weirdo farm.”

  His gentle, down-turned eyes observe me. “If you need to talk, I’m here to listen.”

  ‘Don’t trust anyone.’ Shadus’ voice echoes.

  “Yup. That’s what they all say. Right before they stab you in the back.”

  “You are a mistrustful individual.”

  “You could say that.”

  He scans the paper on the clipboard. “It says here your mother -”

  I clench my jaw. All the feeling in my body drains away - the scar quieting its nervous throbs as it starts to burn, acidic and searing. His voice lowers to a sympathetic murmur as he reads further.

  “She sounds like she was a very strong woman.”

  “Type A.” I spit my blood type, jump off the table, and slam the office door behind me hard enough to have people staring and windows rattling.

  Yulan’s nice. But stupid as hell.

  ***

  Dodgeball is the perfect sport for taking my frustrations out on other people legally. I’m crap at sports, but I’m the best at being angry. I lob a ball at a guy’s face and watch him duck in genuine fear. I throw another and hit a girl’s calf hard enough to make her squeal.

  “Hale! Get over here!” Mr. Targe barks. I jog over. “What are you doing out there?”

  “Playing dodge ball. Pretty well, too.”

  “You’re just throwing a ball wanting to hurt people. You’re out for ten minutes. Cool off.”

  I flop on the bench beside another girl and pick at my gym shorts.

  “Your shoes.”

  The voice is so timid I barely hear it. I look over - an EVE sits next to me. Her hair is in a bun, face round and button-nosed cute, her eyes dark. She stares at the floor.

  “What about them?” I ask.

  “They’re falling apart,” She murmurs.

  My converse are dirty, with frayed laces. I’d patched parts that wore thin with black duct tape to make them last longer. It made me nervous to ask for new shoes when we could barely afford Alisa’s medicine.

  “After I get out of here, I’ll buy some really expensive new ones. Gold-plated,” I joke. She smiles, a timid crescent.

  “My dad’s making me put it in my college fund.”

  “Your dad’s a smart guy.”

  “I-It doesn’t matter. I won’t get into a really good college anyway. I’m not smart enough.” She shakes her head. “S-Sorry. College is a really boring thing to t-talk about.”

  We’re quiet, watching the game and listening to the sneakers squeak on the floor and taunts fly between sides. I swing my legs.

  “I’m Victoria, by the way.”

  “Dakota,” She says.

  “Why’re you on the bench?”

  “I’m really uncoordinated. I get tagged out on the first ball thrown.”

  “You can’t be that bad.”

  Her smile grows. “J-Just wait till we’re back on the court. You’ll see.”

  Mr. Targe lets us in on the next game. I toss Dakota a ball. She screws up her face and throws it with all her might. A boy catches it with little effort and tosses it back almost guiltily, and though Dakota braces to dodge she ends up flailing into the ball. She catches my eye.

  “S-See? Definitely the worst.”

  “It was a graceful sort of ‘worst’, though,” I laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” A girl on our team smacks her gum. “She’s total shit. Next time don’t even bother playing.”

  “You looked like a dying fish,” Another girl laughs. Dakota flushes and her eyes glue to the floor.

  “I hope I never look that stupid. Ever. You’ll tell me if I look that stupid, right?” The gum-smacker looks to her friend.

  Anger flares in me, a lion prodded, an ember meeting oxygen. Alisa was teased just like this, every day. And I’m not there to stop it. But I can stop it here, and now. I throw my ball as hard as I can. It smashes into gum-smacker’s chest. She stumbles, gasps, and swallows her gum.

  “Don’t talk shit, assface,” I snarl. “Makes you look even uglier.”

  “Hale! Get over here right now!” Mr. Targe snaps. He points threateningly. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I don’t like it. Detention. Meet me here after school. You’ll be cleaning the court.”

  “Did you hear what she was saying?” I protest. “That’s straight bullying!”

  “And what you did was no better,” Targe insists. “Another word out of your mouth and it’ll be double detention.”

  I gape like a dying fish, bury my fury, and flop on the bench beside Dakota. She shoots me a lo
ok.

  “Y-You didn’t have to do that. I’m used to it. They don’t affect me anymore.”

  “It’s okay. I just can’t stand hearing crap like that.” I tighten my ponytail and glower at Targe’s back. She looks at the floor sheepishly.

  Mr. Targe makes me haul crates of traffic cones and baseball bats into a closet for hours. I slide a crate of basketballs across the polished floor. Targe walks to the gym door.

  “I’m going to get a few more things. I don’t want to catch you slacking, you hear? The faster you finish, the faster you can leave.”

  I make a sarcastic salute. “Sir!”

  He rolls his eyes and pushes out of the gym. I’m alone. The basketball hoop hangs like a misused spider web.

  “How’s the weather up there?” I shout at it. It flutters a little. I stand at the free throw line and toss a ball. Miss.

  “Assigned detention already, human? You’re pathetic.” Taj walks onto the court. I heave a sigh.

  “Just leave me in peace, Buttercup. I wanna finish and get out.”

  “Buttercup?” He bristles at the nickname.

  “Your hair kills my eyes. Were you intentionally going for the ‘over-bleached surfer’ look? Maybe it makes you stand out - that’s important when your peers all look like clones of you. Gives you some pride.”

  He stares at me, gold eyes easier to look at than the smoldering crimson of Shadus or the piercing sky blue of Raine. A faint smile plays on his mouth - a real smile. Not a smirk or triumphant snicker.

  “Congratulations, human. You’re the only one who seems to get it.” He finally says. “The Gutters don’t understand. My family, especially, doesn’t understand.”

  “Talk to more humans. We all understand that sort of thing. Why do you think we get tattoos and pierce our ears?”

  “I assumed general stupidity.” He shoves his hands in his jean pockets. “Is Targe around? I was supposed to meet with him.”

  “He’ll be back as soon as he’s done pulling his head out of his ass.”

  Taj’s gold eyes take in the crate of basketballs. He walks over and picks up the ball I threw.

  “I don’t normally offer my valuable time and assistance, but there’s nothing better to do at the moment. I’ll help you in your punishment. Consider yourself lucky.”