Creating Eve: Eve 1.0 Sequence

By Chloelia Salome

It is the year 2078, and this wondrous nation is under the control of a domineering Chancellor, who seeks the creation of an ideal human being. When his plans come into fruition and he finds just the answer with the help of a team of secret scientists, the world Evadene has grown up in is about to crumble. The destruction of mankind is but one thing on the Chancellor’s list, and nothing is going to obstruct his path.

One girl named Evadene will fight for everything she has, and the survival of her dying, younger brother, Micah. The clock is ticking, and she has to make some of the biggest decisions in her life—from leaving the comfort of her farming village, fighting government officials who have put a price on her head, and joining a secret underground society wrought on the principles of uprooting the current government and its Chancellor.

The survival of mankind depends on one girl: Evadene. And time is almost up to save humanity from itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365371806

Book preview

Creating Eve: Eve 1.0 Sequence

Creating EVE: EVE 1.0 Sequence By Chloelia Salome

Copyright © 2015

Chloelia Salome

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review, without permission in writing from the author/ publisher.

ISBN 978-1-365-37180-6

This is a work of fiction. Characters, corporations, institutions, and organizations in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe their actual conduct.

Front & Back Cover & Text by Martin Grohs

Published in the US by Lulu.com

There is nothing wrong in suffering, if you suffer for a purpose. Our revolution didn’t abolish danger or death. It simply made danger and death worthwhile.

-         H.G. Wells

Creating EVE

Book 1 in the EVE 1.0 Sequence

By Chloelia Salome

Prologue

—CURE FOUND—

**Digipad Publication pending for Breaking News section of CONFED-ECON. To be processed and sent for review by our Chancellor on March 21st, 2078, 2319 Hours. Upon further notification from our Chancellor, this Digipad Publication will be released in all regions of our nation, to be read by all members of our society. **

Just this week we are in with breaking news regarding a novel discovery in the realm of our nation’s medicinal department! For the past century, scientists commissioned and trained by our Chancellor have been pushing their buttons to find a cure to cancer. They have worked day and night for years, experimenting with many conditions and possibilities for a cure. Only recently we have seen success with this ongoing research.

We have much to thank the government of our wondrous nation and the laborious scientists for creating the cure we have been living, and dying, for! It wasn’t until 30 years ago that cancer became a true pandemic. In the past, cancer only affected the young and old, but morphed into a disease uncontrollable and afflicting all ages. Just over the course of one month, we saw 100 civilians in our capital perish at the hands of cancer.

The race against the clock led to the loss of many lives, and the starts of many wars. But finally, our nation has come to terms with our strengths in science and domination over other nations. Perhaps, this cure will lead us down the right path, towards global supremacy and fulfillment of our citizens’ lives.

Our Chancellor perceives positive delegations in the near-future with our allies and enemies. An end to the ceaseless wars doesn’t seem too far beyond the horizon, and optimism is soaring amongst the citizens of our wondrous nation. Hold on tight, fellow comrades, for a bright future is ahead of us.

In just a matter of mere days, the cure will be handed out to all citizens in our nation, and we will be rid of the horrors of cancer once and for all. And, just over the mountains, as we speak, peace is being made with bordering nations!

This is our future—a future filled with bountiful cures, happiness, and peace. Stay tuned for further updates on the cure distribution and foreign delegations.

PUBLICATION TERMINATED ON MARCH 23RD, 2078, 1919 HOURS BY OUR CHANCELLOR.

** News of this cure is not to be shared with the public unless further notified by our Chancellor**

CHAPTER 1

T

he bell let off a lovely chime, dismissing the children from their classrooms. They charged out into the halls, giggling and playing with each other on their way to their next class. It was yet another school day in the city on the outskirts of the capital for these young, happy, and carefree children.

Finally, the tardy bell rang and the children were seated in their classrooms. The teachers walked into the classrooms, followed by their robotic assistants. The assistants handed out assigned digipads to each student, and projected the notes in the front of the room, using their built in projectors.

In every classroom, the teachers spoke in monotone voices, outlining the specifics about this wondrous nation’s history, as well as the continued, yet secretive, successes of this nation’s scientists. The Chancellor had deemed in a proclamation the age children should start learning about their nation, and it all began in the elementary years. Once past those required elementary years, children would be given the option to: 1) join the soldiers fighting for this wondrous nation, 2) begin working for the benefit of this nation’s economy, or 3) continue education in the fields of math, science, and political science. The freedom of choice was crucial, the Chancellor would say, for the growth of individuality in this nation.

And so, the lessons progressed in this very elementary school for the next thirty minutes. Until something went wrong—terribly wrong.

Code 9, they called it, although they never thought it would be put into use. Code 9 was code for intruder invasion. However, invasions in these schools were nearly impossible, mostly due to the heightened security and robots set at every entrance. To make it through the entrances of the schools without pulling a Code 9, a sampling of the person’s blood would be taken, as well as a scanning of their tattooed identification, found on the back of the neck. Everyone’s tattoos and blood would be registered so that the government could process who steps in and out of line.

But this time it happened. Code 9 happened. Someone defied the government. They tricked the system. They tricked the robots. They broke into the school—a school filled with little, giggling, happy children. They broke into the school, and changed the children’s’ lives forever.

The alarm went off. It was easy for him to wake up, as the tone of the alarm was ingrained in his brain for the rest of his life. It was the same electronic and obnoxious beeps he had been waking up to for the past ten years. He sighed and opened his eyes, gazing wearily at the steel-embossed ceiling. He pushed aside the satin covers and slithered his feet towards the ground. He stood rather quickly, and marched to the armoire to slam a heavy fist against the alarm. It stopped with one last cheerful beep.

He pulled the silver robe tighter around his body and inspected a folder left upon the armoire. He sighed and leafed through it, remembering the files he forgot to read the previous night. It had been late and he was tired. He hadn’t had time to do everything; there wasn’t enough time in a day to complete all his tasks.

The papers seemed to be vaguely important, but his blurry eyes refused to absorb the details. They were something about procedures and treatment. Maybe it wasn’t as important as his robotic assistant made it seem. It could wait.

The nation was waiting for him already. It shouldn’t need to wait any longer for this man. It was his time to get the wheels rolling and turn ideas into actions.

He went about his daily business: ordering one digipad to organize an outfit in color accordance, ordering another digipad to alert the building of his awakening, and ordering yet another digipad to comply with his needs of morning nutrition. It was rather simple—having everything at your fingertips, literally.

The doors were busted open, shards of glass speckling the hallways like tiny little diamonds. The children were huddled in the corners of their classrooms, whimpering like a sorrowful choir. There was no escape plan. The teachers’ assistants were set to guard the doors from the intruder. But, number one, there was more than just one intruder. And, number two, the robots were not built for fighting—their sole purpose was to assist. These were strictly brain robots. They would be practically useless against the intruders.

Men clad in black, with a blue stripe down the center of the uniforms and helmets, marched in. They muttered cryptic things to each other through microphones embedded behind their left ears.

The children continued to whimper, pressing closer to each other, trying to mold themselves into the back walls of the classrooms. The intruders were approaching the first set of classrooms.

The doors were broken through. The men marched in. The robots were completely and utterly useless against this brutal force. The teachers tried to fend the intruders off, but they were taken captive and dragged away, completely out of sight of the children.

The children would never see their teachers again.

He marched closer to the closet, examining the digipad that was now presenting a gorgeous satin suit and bowtie to him. He smiled and pressed a few buttons. Seconds later, the outfit was procured for him and laid out before his heavy eyes.

The children were rounded together. Some cried out as the intruders pushed them into the halls and lined them up against the white walls. Translucent shackles framed the small hands of each and every child, binding them together into an inescapable line. When all the children were gathered and in two straight lines, the intruders surrounded them, blocking their escape. Frighteningly enough, guns were pointed at them from all corners of the hall. The poor children were petrified.

But they marched onward, per the orders of the intruders.

They marched until they were told to stop. And to never look back.

They never did. But neither did they return home.

He briefly inspected the translucent plastic bowtie before wrapping it around his neck. He was tying it before the mirror when he was disrupted. The digipad erupted in a frenzied buzz before projecting a scene against the back wall. The man looked through the mirror at the projection as he continued to knot the bowtie.

"Good morning Chancellor. We have urgent news from CONFED-ECON this morning, March 22nd, 2078 at 0819 hours, chimed the lovely female’s voice. A break in of an outlying elementary school has occurred by our suspected enemy. Investigations are undergoing, but with the disappearance of over 100 school children, this investigation is expected to lead on into the near future until all children are found and brought to their respective homes…."

The Chancellor pulled the bowtie tight, until it had two crisp ears centered at his Adam’s apple. The female voice continued to spit out the horrible news but the Chancellor found it important to blur out her voice from his conscience. Things were good. Things were going according to plan. He was satisfied.

This wondrous nation was waiting for him. It was time he gave them what they really needed. Perhaps it was also time that he read the files in that manila folder atop his mahogany armoire. Perhaps they were important. Perhaps they were exactly what the people of this nation wanted.

The Chancellor turned the bowtie slightly, just as the female voice concluded her report of the school break in. The digipad was silent. So were those children.

Excellent, the Chancellor murmured.

CHAPTER 2

I

t was hot. There was no cooling system, so the heat clutched on to everything—the furniture, the windows, the ceiling fan, the fabrics, even the radio. That’s probably why it was crackling with every new frequency wave it attempted to pick up in this place.

Finally, the radio settled on a wave, and the room was filled with the overly-excited voice of a broadcaster from the east coast. "And now we hear from East of Eden!" the radio spit out.

Some twisted song began, and a man’s deep voice bellowed, filling the room with his tunes. The radio seemed to protest his voice, as it began its crackling again. The crackling didn’t cease after a few minutes as it usually did. No, this time, it continued for a good ten minutes. Ten minutes of painful screeching that filled the little room and pushed the dense heat off to the farthest crevices and corners. After these godawful ten minutes, the radio gave out.

The crackling stopped. No overly-excited broadcaster came through. And East of Eden was no longer performing. It was silent and everything was replaced by white noise. Simple, quiet, absent.

It was then that the girl barreled through the door, her arms encompassing a big basket of collected goods. The goods were hard to come by these days, but the new farming season was supposed to be the best in a decade, according to the government.

She sighed and placed the basket gently on the corner of the table. After wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, the girl stumbled towards the radio.

Her dog ran through the door, panting from having to keep up with the girl who walked so quickly. The dog lapped at some water that had not yet evaporated from a can on the floor and then pranced towards the girl. He nuzzled against her leg as she inspected the radio. The dog looked at it and turned his head as a bark escaped his slack jaw.

Hmm, she muttered to no one in particular. The dog hushed and, as if he had lost interest in the radio, shuffled towards the bed. Moments later, he was sleeping.

The girl fiddled with the buttons, turning dials that hadn’t been turned in, God only knew, how many years.  She moved the antenna around, turning it towards the door, and then the bed, and lastly towards the window. Usually this would do the trick. But no, this time, it was different. No crackling, no stations, nothing from the east coast.

The girl sighed and turned her back on the unfortunate radio. She wasn’t going to waste any more energy on that old piece of junk. And besides, if she couldn’t fix it, her pop could. She was sure of it. And if not, then her mam could probably give it a go too. They were definitely handy.

She went on to organize the goods stowed in her basket. Her parents would be happy with the treasures she found. They would have a good dinner tonight—actually, dinners for the next few nights. She had found some tins,—perfect for cooking atop the fire at night—traded one of her own tins for a can of soybeans,—grown in the capital city, by the government—found some batteries in excellent condition,—unfortunately, batteries that would not help the poor radio—and gathered some incredibly fresh—and non-polluted—mushrooms. When she had found those mushrooms, under the blaring sun, she thought she was hallucinating. She had not come across fresh, natural, delicacies like this in a long time. Most of what they ate was sent overland by the government up the east coast. The goods were alright, nothing too mouthwatering. But, growing up on the government’s food was almost all she knew. The same went for all the children in the nation.

Her parents were farmers. Well, two of the last surviving farmers. The government put them out west, far away from the capital on the coast, and quite frankly, other people. They lived in a little enclosed community with about twenty other farmers in a ten mile radius. Each family farmed what they could of the several acres of land the government gave them. Then, once a week, the farmers would bring their meager goods to the center of trade, and bargain with each other for the best deal. Most goods were delivered to the government, because after all, the capital city needed a natural food supply.

Mam and pop would come home with far less than they had harvested. Most of the time, the things they came back with were incredibly unappetizing. But it was food, nutrition, and needed to survive in this wasteland. So the girl ate it, wanting to make her parents proud by downing the much needed nutrition.

Her parents did not let her accompany them to the center of trade. She didn’t know exactly why, but she had a feeling it was to protect her. They would come back bearing stories of the miseries they witnessed at the center of trade. Whether it was homeless people, sometimes children, begging for food or traders bargaining with blood and nails for any valuable commodity. It was no place for a young girl.

The girl felt that her parents only wanted to protect her from the harsh reality of the world. She was their baby girl, after all. And happy, innocent children were just about as hard to come by nowadays as non-polluted mushrooms.

The girl didn’t mind. Through the years, she grew comfortable managing the fields by herself throughout the day. She had her dog, Spirit, by her side almost every second of the day. Although he wasn’t helpful in any way, he was another body—her companion. She knew she wasn’t alone if he was at her side.

Manning the fields was not easy labor. Here, though, there was nothing to do other than work in the fields. Unfortunately, the school in their town was only for the elementary years. There weren’t many options for teens to continue their education.

And so, she performed her labor carefully and slowly. Although the sun always bore down on her with little sympathy for her already burnt shoulders and back, she would work from morning to dusk. After working in the fields, she came home to their one-room house and prepared things for the evening. On the days her parents weren’t at the center of trade, they were out and about, dealing with other business. She wasn’t really sure where they went or what they did, but she assumed it was related to trading some of their goods on a black market.

We will be back before dinner, her mam would say every time before they embarked on their daylong journey. While in the fields, the girl would imagine where her parents headed. What they were doing. Who they were meeting and also why. She didn’t bother to question them upon their return to the house—she figured she would be met with either silence or excuses. On top of that, neither parents lent her a hand in figuring out where they disappeared to daily.

They produced whatever types of goods they could on their farm. It depended on the land and whether it was too polluted or not to yield real nutritional produce. They got their seeds from the government’s biological engineering facility on the coast.

When her parents first received the seeds in a giant carton, they were shocked to see the unrealistically big size of them. They murmured to each other about how it was unnatural, discussing engineering techniques to develop such seeds. This was all foreign to the girl. Again, the girl was too young to question what her parents were talking about. And besides, this had been her first time seeing seeds. And they were beyond beautiful. They were magical. She handled the seeds with extreme care.

The government would not be happy if we lost a seed and didn’t do with it as we should, her pap had said when he laid a seed in the girl’s little hands for the first time.

She had just stared down at the seed in astonishment and wonder. She ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the fluorescent green seed, turning it over carefully in her hands as her pap stood and watched from a distance. After a while of inspecting this rare specimen, pap plucked it out of her tiny grasp and stored it in the carton, hidden under the bed.

The seeds were precious. They were the property of the government to be lent out to the farmers who would, in turn, return a far greater product than the seeds—edible nutrition. It was a science to the girl, and the information was too complex for her brain to grasp.

All the seeds were different. Some produced soybeans while others in the carton produced some long yellow goods called zucchini. No matter what the seeds produced, they all tasted the same. There was no variation in the tastes, nothing that spurred different taste buds into motion, and nothing that interested the girl in the prospect of eating. But she was told that to survive, she must eat. And eat she did.

The girl released her hair from the sunhat and shook it out, tousling the curls free from the confines of her makeshift hair pins. Her hair was heavy in this weather, and she wanted desperately to chop it off. But her mam insisted she never cut her beautiful hair—only trim it every so often. The girl dunked her hair in a basin of standing water before coiling it up into a bun atop her head. She then sat heavily in one of the table’s chairs and studied at the picture that never moved at the edge of the table.

It was a picture of her brother, Abraham. He was older, seven years older to be exact. He had a beautiful smile, short black curls, similar to hers, and eyes as blue as the clearest sky the girl had never witnessed, but only imagined. He was handsome, to say the least, and everyone in the village used to marvel at his strength, compassion, and good looks. Unfortunately, his fame in their little village was short-lived. He went to fight, in a war. A war forged by the government with some unknown foreign externality. Abraham had told mam and pap that he was doing the right thing—that this was the way he wanted to spend his life; as a soldier, fighting for this nation.

The day he was taken away, government officials appeared in black trucks. The trucks seemed to be bulletproof, with windows tinted a black as dark as the midnight sky. Seeing those monsters in the