by T. C. Edge
Across the square, the artist spends the first hour or two hovering around, yelping any time we finish up on a particular letter, leaving his masterpiece scrambled behind. Soon enough, he disappears entirely, tears spreading down his face as he’s led away by a couple of consoling friends.
Clearly, he can’t stomach watching his work be scrubbed away so ruthlessly.
Then again, that was his job, and this is ours. Our remit was to remove the graffiti, no quarter given to what it was covering. The order will likely have come from our own council, without the input of the Court. Frankly, why should they care if such a statement is emblazed across the mural of a landscape?
At the end of the day, the words are exactly what they believe. Well, almost. I mean, they wouldn’t necessarily call art and emotion ‘evil’ per se, but they’d certainly agree that it has no tangible impact on the functioning of their society.
The Fanatics are aware of this, and clearly agree with it. For them, and the divine ‘super-beings’ they worship, logic trumps emotion when attempting to rebuild a prosperous civilisation.
And rebuild is certainly the word.
The square begins to fill as lunchtime approaches, workers spreading from nearby buildings and offices and warehouses to get a little dose of culture before their days resume. They congregate here from far and wide, the Conveyor Line fit to bursting as it brings in wave after wave of Unenhanced.
Our job still to be completed, we soldier on, and become something of an attraction ourselves. I can hear people whispering around us, trying to figure out what the graffiti would have said with only a few letters still remaining. The brighter among them are quick to work it out.
Frankly, it hardly takes a Savant to do so.
By the time the job is completed, the square is just starting to clear again, the worker bees all called back to their hives. As we pack away our things and prepare to return to the academy, the councilman wanders back over, perusing our work as he comes.
“Good job,” he says. “I knew you’d never be able to save the art underneath. Poor old Humphrey, he worked on that piece for weeks. But, that’s life I suppose.” He digs into his pocket and draws out an envelope. “Payment for your work. Send my regards to Mrs Carmichael.”
He wanders off, disappearing into the fading crowd. As he does so, I feel my eye drawn to a black mass spreading from one of its far corners. Four figures, all huddled closely together, begin rushing through towards the centre of the square, all of them dressed entirely in black. They move at such a pace, and so tightly knit together, that they draw many eyes, people stopping and watching as they go.
“What’s going on?” asks Tess, following my gaze. “Another stupid performance no doubt…”
I suspect she’s right.
The figures continue to come, moving as centrally as they can and drawing along a wave of onlookers in their wake. Anything unusual around here tends to catch the public’s attention, the crowd hungrily gobbling up this sort of random performance art.
Personally, it’s not usually to my taste, but there’s something intriguing about these four. Something that captures my attention as I stand rooted to the spot, watching as they stop in the centre of the square amid the statues and monuments and little audiences that congregate around other entertainers.
Then, suddenly, they spread out, their paths diverging.
Each moves off in an opposite direction, spreading into a wide square, the crowd stepping back to allow them free movement. Behind them, they appear to be dragging something, a transparent sheet, stretching it out across the concrete.
With no warning at all, the four figures stop, and the sheet crackles and flashes, fizzing on the surface of the ground as it sparks into a rhythmic blaze of colourful fire. The people whoop and clap, watching the pretty display.
But something inside me calls out a warning.
This doesn’t feel right at all.
The fire crackles for a brief few seconds, and the sheet disappears. As it does so, black markings remain, scorched onto the earth. The throng go silent, all eyes peering closely to read the words.
I don’t need to.
I’ve spent the entire day trying to scrub them out.
ART IS EVIL.
EMOTION IS EVIL.
GIVE IN TO LOGIC.
A confusion breeds in the crowd. People turn to look at the four mystery figures with a new expression: one of anger, and fear.
The black figures stay where they are. For a moment, none of them move.
And then they all move together.
With a coordinated motion, they all reach to their chests, and tear open the loose fabric that binds their black overalls. I squint forward at the nearest man, several dozen metres away, and feel my heart bursting inside my chest at the sight.
Bombs…
Around all their chests, rudimentary explosives are attached. A spread of fear rumbles through the crowd as they all scream and disperse.
But it’s too late.
As people scream out, and the crowd flee, the four figures nod to each other in unison.
And with my feet still rooted in place, I watch as the square erupts into a ball of flame.
3
It’s Tess who reacts the quicker of the two of us.
Grabbing me by the shoulders, she pulls me back and around the side of the mural, tossing me to the floor as she does so. I stumble and fall and feel the heat as she comes down on top of me, the earth rumbling beneath us and the air filling with a deafening roar.
Hidden from the explosion, we huddle in a bundle of limbs on the ground for what seems like minutes. In reality, it’s only seconds.
The burst of noise is so loud that it leaves my ears ringing. After the sudden wave of heat comes one of smoke, black and dark grey fumes pouring out from the centre of the square.
For a moment, the aftermath of the explosion leaves a deathly silence in its wake. And then, slowly, the sounds of muffled screams spread into my ears again.
I lock eyes with Tess. Hers are hooded and yet alert, shining blue as the fog of smoke surrounds us.
“Are you OK?” she shouts at me.
I nod, and she stands back to her feet, peering back around the side of the mural. Her mouth slowly falls open as she gawps at the scene. I clamber to my feet, still half dazed, and take a look as well.
Devastation is the only word that springs to mind.
What was once the centre of the square is now a warzone. Little remains but for chunks of statues and monuments too sturdy to be completely eliminated by the blast. Bodies lie everywhere, cut up and torn apart, Culture Corner now coloured in a fresh coating of red blood.
On the outskirts of the blast, the injured cough and try to get to their feet, people spreading in from outside to help. Among them I see some Enhanced rush in, the towering figures of Brutes, dressed in the dark grey and black uniforms of the City Guard, hoisting people into their gigantic arms and getting them to safety.
Perched up on nearby rooftops, Hawks watch on too, their eagle eyes relaying information down to their fellow members of the Enhanced. I watch in awe as a couple of Dashers come hurtling in from nearby, their bodies moving so swiftly through the dispersing cloud of smoke, leaving clear trails behind them. They dart from person to person, checking for pulses and diagnosing injuries at a frightening speed. Determining who can be saved. And who are too far gone.
It’s at times like this when you see these people for what they truly are: superior. Remarkable. A higher evolution of the species.
Never have I witnessed them working together with such efficiency.
Quickly, Tess and I add our own bodies to the fray. Right before us, several people who’d caught the fringe of the blast lie clinging onto wounds and wailing to the heavens. As we step in to help them, a Dasher comes whizzing towards us, appearing as if from nowhere.
“No, not this one,” he says, his voice rushing as quickly as his feet. It’s a common side effect for Enhanced of h
is kind, talking in abbreviated bursts. “She may have a fractured spine. Don’t move her.”
“Um, OK,” murmurs Tess, looking at the guy with no small measure of wonder.
His eyes quickly dash to a couple of others, moaning nearby and bleeding from lacerations across their legs.
“Help those two,” he orders. “Wrap their wounds and halt the flow of blood.”
He doesn’t offer any further advice. Instead, he calls out loudly for a medic, before performing a closer inspection of the wounded woman at our feet.
Without delay, Tess and I set about helping where we can. Removing our jackets, we peel off our jumpers and begin shredding them to use for bandages and tourniquets, wrapping them tight around wounds as our hands are quickly soaked in blood.
Tess doesn’t recoil from the sight at all. It surprises me that the image of torn up legs and spurting blood has no impact on her, given her past. For me, it’s unpleasant, but not enough to prevent me from taking action. Together, we wrap the wounds and help to remove the two patients from the battlefield and towards an incoming army of awaiting ambulances.
Before long, a mini field hospital is being erected on the perimeter of the square. More bodies pile in, helping where they can, all the medics in the area called upon. Tess and I continue to offer our aid, working to support more of the injured as they limp and stumble their way towards proper medical treatment.
Everything happens in a bit of a rush, the scent of smoke and seared flesh lingering in the air. It’s a smell that puts the odour present back at the academy to shame. One my nostrils have never encountered before.
Truth be told, I never expected to know what charred human bodies smelled like.
It’s not until we get a moment to stop and rest that I notice that Tess herself is bleeding from a laceration on her upper right arm. I, too, have a couple of small cuts on my forehead, and a grazed cheek from when I was bundled to the floor.
We move over to the field hospital to get some attention. Tess’s arm is hastily sewn up by a medical stapler that pulls the torn flesh together, and then sears the wound shut. My own cuts require nothing but a bit of antiseptic cream, which Tess herself spreads onto my skin.
Standing on the boundary of the square, we both take a long breath and look upon the carnage. Neither of us speak for a moment as we try to come to terms with what’s just happened.
Around us dozens, maybe even hundreds, lie dead or wounded, Culture Corner now a morgue. Never before have the Fanatics committed such an atrocity. Graffiti and vandalism is one thing. This is something else entirely.
As we stand there, a figure stands out amid the rubble and debris in the middle of the square, sweeping in with a couple of armoured Brutes to his sides.
He wears a light grey suit, the sleeves tightly bound around his long arms, the collar buttoned up tight to the top of his neck with his head sprouting from the opening. A neat covering of perfectly manicured brown hair adorns the top of his head, his expression detached and unwelcoming.
There’s nothing decorative about his appearance at all, save the small insignia that sits on the middle of his chest below his collar: three circles, one inside the other, each signifying the three main classes of people in the city – the Unenhanced, the Enhanced, and the Court.
The innermost circle is coloured white, indicating that he’s a Savant, a member of the Court. The other two circles, representing the Enhanced and us, the Unenhanced, are coloured black.
The Brutes to his flanks carry the same insignia on their armour. Only, with them, the middle circle is white and the other two are black. Often you’ll see members of our own Council of the Unenhanced here in Outer Haven with the same badge. With them, of course, it’s the outer circle that’s white, proof of their more lowly standing.
Overall, it’s a quick and easy way to determine what class a particular city servant or official belongs to.
Even without the insignia, however, I’d know this man was a Savant. It’s in the eyes, pale blue, showing no emotion at all. His expression, flat and cold, even when looking upon a scene of such devastation, makes it clear that this man has little empathy for what’s happened here.
Yet, this sort of attack is unprecedented, and so here he is. Only when something extreme happens do any members of the Court appear, sent down here by the Consortium to ensure that public order is maintained. This man, however, is not from the Consortium from what I can tell. Within the class of the Court, their own hierarchy is determined by the colours of their clothing. Wearing light grey signifies that he’s high up, but not at the top of the tree. If he were, he’d be draped in the purest of whites, the blank, colourless attire reserved for those of the Consortium.
Never before has one of their rank come here to Outer Haven. As far as I know, they remain at the summit of the High Tower, and rarely even venture out into the streets of Inner Haven. For them, even meddling with members of the Enhanced is probably deemed an act of impurity. I can’t imagine what they’d feel like if they had to endure where I lived for a day or two.
But of course…they don’t feel at all. How stupid of me.
As I watch the man enter the square, I wonder what type of Savant he is. All Savants have supreme intellect, and all are members of the Court. Yet within their ranks, some rare specimens can be found, those with additional mental abilities that boggle a simple mind such as mine.
I’ve heard of those who have the power of telekinesis, capable of moving things with nothing but their thoughts. Around here, they’re known as Mind-Movers, and exist as little more than rumours heard on the streets and among the youngsters of the academy.
Others apparently have the gift of telepathy, the psychic ability to communicate with each other through their thoughts. I’ve even heard about them being able to read minds, sneaking into people’s heads and seeing their innermost thoughts play out in front of them. We call them Mind-Manipulators.
Given that such powers exist in the mind, there’s no way to determine what other gifts a Savant might have purely by looking at them. Brutes are easy to spot for their colossal size and heavy, plodding demeanour. Hawks have intense eyes that glare and rarely blink. Savants – other than the detached and neutral expressions that adorn their faces – have no physical traits that call them apart.
By the look of the man, however, his role is within the City Guard. Most likely one of their senior members, overseeing the various Brutes and Hawks and Dashers who keep watch over the residents of Outer Haven to make sure we stay in line.
Mostly, they tend to do just that – watch – and not take an active part in dealing with most criminal activity. That is the domain of our own police force here, who are tasked with maintaining law and order. When a larger state crime occurs, however, the Enhanced and City Guard will get involved.
Clearly, this is one of those.
I find myself strangely transfixed by the Savant, so rarely are they seen. Tess, too, doesn’t utter a word as we just stand there, watching him passing along orders with a cold detachment. From around the square, other members of the City Guard rush over to update him on what’s been happening.
One of them, who I recognise as the Dasher who briefly engaged with Tess and me, swiftly darts to his side. As he speaks, his eyes wash over the square, before landing on us. A finger quickly rises up and points us out, and the eyes of the Savant land squarely upon us.
I feel my pulse quicken as I lock eyes with him. Even from this distance, it’s like looking into a void, a deep well, emptied out of any emotion or feeling.
With a casual and yet efficient walk, he begins marching in our direction. I share a look with Tess. Is he coming to talk to us?
Part of me wants to sink back into the crowd and disappear, but we stand our ground. As he glides in closer, his eyes never leave us. Try as I might to reciprocate, I can’t. I find myself looking away, his unblinking eyes making me strangely uncomfortable.
When he arrives in front of us, he stops and attem
pts to raise a smile on his thin lips. It’s all wrong. The shape of his lips and the relentless, disconnected staring of his eyes is completely incongruous. As if the upper and lower parts of his face are reading from entirely different scripts.
An attempt to humanise himself, perhaps, and display some emotion for our own benefit. Frankly, it doesn’t work at all. It merely makes him appear even more creepy.
“Good afternoon, ladies. My name is Leyton Burns, Deputy Commander of the City Guard. I am told that you have been aiding us in the clean-up?”
Arg. Clean up. Even his wording is off. He makes it sound like someone’s spilled a can of paint or something. Maybe it’s all that red blood…
“Yes, Deputy,” answers Tess, putting on her ‘respectful’ voice. “We’ve been doing what we can.”
“And we thank you for it,” says Deputy Burns, attempting to lift his smile a little higher. I cringe at the sight. The partial monotone quality to his voice is also rather unnerving. “I am told, too, that you witnessed the explosion?”
“We did,” answers Tess.
Deputy Burns nods, staring now directly into Tess’s brighter blue eyes. She frowns and recoils a touch.
“Please, don’t move,” says Deputy Burns. “Stare right into my eyes. This will only take a minute.”
I can see Tess struggling to do as she’s told. His odd, staring eyes peer deep, his entire body still as a statue. I watch on, unable to look away from the strange scene, as Tess’s breathing grows a little more abbreviated. Then, suddenly, Deputy Burns seems to come back to life, leaning back and nodding.
“Good,” he says.
Then he turns to me.
“What was that?” I ask, noting the strange expression on Tess’s face, as if she’s just waking from a dream.
“I searched her hippocampus to trace her memory,” he says. “It’s the centre of memory and emotion in the brain.”
He looks to me, and then seems to remember he’s speaking with an Unenhanced. “To put it simply,” he adds, “I read her mind to see the event for myself from her viewpoint. Now, please be still.”