The rage in it causes Emory to take a nervous step back into the darkness. Hephaestus is a foot taller than anybody else in the village, and twice their width. He’s carelessly shorn his hair to scabs and stubble, and there’s a gouge down the right side of his face. His hands are huge. As are his arms. His legs. His chest. Matis once joked that the only way he could sculpt Hephaestus would be to start chipping away at the volcano behind the village.
‘Can’t this wait until after curfew?’ hisses Niema, peering up at her son. She seems so small in his shadow, a doll made of twigs and twine, with hay for hair.
‘We’re supposed to be protecting them,’ he says pleadingly.
‘From themselves,’ replies Niema, realising that she won’t be able to head the conversation off. ‘That requires sacrifice.’
‘Sacrifice is when they make the choice. What we’re doing is murder.’
Emory gasps, shocked to hear that awful word tossed around so casually without a book present.
‘Not if it works,’ argues Niema.
‘It never has before. At this point, it’s no better than a death sentence.’
‘I know what we’ve been doing wrong, Hephaestus,’ she says, in a wheedling tone. ‘I’ve adapted the procedure. It’s going to succeed this time.’
Confronted by the immovability of her son’s doubt, Niema lifts his heavy hands, turning them over to inspect the scars and burns that mottle his flesh.
‘You’re the reason I started these experiments, you know,’ she says sadly. ‘I’ll never forget the day you washed up on the island. You were half dead, tortured almost beyond recognition. I thought the fog had got you, but then you told me about the gangs, and the camp where they held you.’
She reaches up touching the scar on his cheek.
‘I swore I’d never let that happen to anybody ever again.’ Her voice hardens, calcifying around her anger. ‘Yes, we’re risking an innocent life, but think of the rewards if our experiment works. Every generation that comes after this one will live in peace, without fear of war, crime or violence. No human being will ever hurt another. We’ll be able to let them roam this island freely without worrying what they’ll do with that freedom. Put it on a scale, my darling. Think about how much good we can do with one single act.’
Hephaestus stares at her uncertainly, his size now appearing to be a trick of the light. He’s hunched over, his shoulders pointing towards her, his shaved head bowed low to hear her hushed words. It’s as though he’s collapsing under her gravity.
‘You’re sure it will work this time?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ she says firmly.
Even with no understanding of what they’re talking about Emory knows that Niema’s not as confident as she’s making out. She’s too aware of herself, too bright and brittle for somebody claiming to be made of steel.
Hephaestus knows it, too, she thinks. She can see it playing across his shifting features. He’s choosing to believe a lie. Allowing himself to be reassured by it; making it big enough to hide behind. For Emory, there’s no greater act of cowardice.
Hephaestus examines his hands, which are covered in badly healed scars and burns – each one a memento of his flight across a crumbling civilisation. ‘When do you want them in the chair?’ he asks, at last.
‘Tonight.’
‘I need twenty-four hours, at least,’ he disagrees. ‘You know that.’
‘This is urgent, Hephaestus. If you bypass the scans –’
‘No,’ he interrupts sternly. ‘If we do that, there’s a chance we miss an underlying medical condition that kills them during the procedure. If you want my help, there’ll be no shortcuts. I’ll need twenty-four hours to choose a subject with the best chance of survival. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow night.’
Niema puts aside her irritation with puffed cheeks, smiling at her son as though his objections were the prevarications of a child.
Emory’s never seen this version of Niema before. Her entire life she’s been a jolly old woman, full of laughter and compassion, urging the villagers to be the best versions of themselves. Emory would never have guessed she could be so manipulative, or so callous about a life. She’s acting the way Thea would.
‘As you wish,’ says Niema, spreading her hands magnanimously. ‘I have another errand to perform tonight, anyway.’
Hephaestus accepts this small victory with a grunt, then stalks away without another word, nearly colliding with the watching Emory. There’s a long stride between them, but she still nearly gags on his odour. It’s sweat and rot and earth, like he’s carrying a dead fox in one of his unwashed pockets.
He meets her astonished gaze with crushing disdain, then glances back over his shoulder. ‘One of the crums was eavesdropping,’ he calls out.
‘I don’t like that term,’ replies Niema sternly, but Hephaestus is already walking away.
Emory watches him go. When she turns back, Niema is in front of her.
‘How much did you hear?’ she asks.
‘You’re planning an experiment that could kill somebody,’ replies Emory, her voice shaking.
‘It’s the lesser of two evils, believe me,’ says Niema, waving away the risk. ‘We’re gambling a solitary life for the chance to make a better world in the long run. I’d give up my own life for that. Wouldn’t you?’
‘It doesn’t sound like they’re being given that choice.’
‘They’re not,’ admits Niema. ‘I prefer to assume nobility rather than be disappointed by a lack of it.’
‘This is wrong,’ protests Emory. ‘We don’t hurt people, not for any reason.’
‘Of course you’d say that.’ Niema smiles faintly, her manner warning. ‘But it’s my job to make sure those wonderful morals of yours are never tested.’
The curfew bell stops ringing.
Emory’s eyes widen as she realises what that means, but before she can do anything about it, she drops to the ground, landing heavily on her shoulder.
She doesn’t feel anything.
She’s sound asleep, along with the rest of the villagers.
74 HOURS UNTIL HUMANITY’S EXTINCTION
SEVEN
As I do every morning, I lift curfew at 7 a.m. precisely, darkness giving way to sudden, shocking daylight.
In their dormitories, the villagers yawn in their rusted beds, stretching their limbs, their first thoughts beginning to drum against my consciousness like rainfall on a tin roof. They swing their legs out of bed and bury their heads in their hands, surprised by how tired they feel, and how much their muscles ache. There are oil blots on their arms that weren’t there last night. Their knuckles are singed. Their sandals aren’t where they left them when they kicked them off.
Three generations of villagers have lived in these barracks, and slept in these beds, and they’ve always awoken to the same mysteries. Thanks to Emory’s questioning nature, this is the first generation that knows the elders can rouse them from their sleep after curfew, but they don’t know why and would never have the temerity to ask.
The need for secrecy is strange, though. In the quiet of their thoughts, they’ll acknowledge that, if nothing else. After all, there’s nothing they wouldn’t do willingly if asked. They want to be of service.
Shaking off their unease, they dress hurriedly and open their shutters to the crisp morning light, putting aside the night’s oddities.
Soon, a breakfast of fresh fruit, juice, bread, ricotta and honey will be served on the long tables in the exercise yard. They’ll have an hour to eat, before it’s time to pick up their tools and head to the farms. Survival in the morning; service in the afternoon; and celebration in the evening is their routine. It’s a knot so familiar that none of them notice how tightly it binds them, and how impossible it is for them to undo it.