by T. C. Edge
Once more, his eyes seem to lock in place, going completely still as they stare right into mine. I feel like I’m involved in the most intense staring contest ever conceived, something that the kids play back at the academy.
I was never very good at it.
Right now, though, I have no choice. I hold my hazel irises on his pale blue ones, and try to ignore everything else that’s going on around me. Within seconds, my eyes begin to ache, and I feel a strange sense of constriction in my head, as if my brain’s being squeezed in a vice.
It’s as though I can feel him in my head, poking around and searching for the right memory. It’s an invasive and unpleasant act that leaves me feeling a little violated. A person’s memory is the most sacred part of them. It’s what makes them who they are. No stranger should ever be invited in.
Mercifully, it doesn’t last long.
Slowly, the darkness that encloses my vision fades, and the world comes back into view. I look at Deputy Burns, and see the first sign of some expression on his face. A little frown hangs over his eyes, his otherwise pristine forehead ever so slightly wrinkled.
“Tell me. What is your name?” he asks me, a curiosity in his voice.
“Brie Melrose,” I say.
“And where do you live, Brie?”
“We both live at Carmichael’s Academy,” I say. “Her name’s Tess Bradbury.”
His eyes move to Tess briefly, before coming back to mine.
“I see. Well, I thank you both for your time today. Please, continue with your afternoons. We will take it from here.”
He performs a courteous little nod, inspects me for just a second longer, and then turns on his heels and glides off again, accompanied by his two guards.
We watch him go, and for the first time since he approached, I feel myself beginning to breathe normally again.
“That was…weird,” says Tess. “I didn’t like that at all.”
“Nor did I,” I say. “I feel like I need a shower.”
Tess manages a chuckle, but quickly realises it’s completely out of place for this particular situation. Surrounded by corpses, this is hardly the place to be caught laughing. More than anything, though, it’s a chuckle of awkwardness. And I know exactly how she feels.
Still standing there, a croaky call sounds behind us.
“Girls! Girls!”
We turn together to see Mrs Carmichael come shuffling along on her old legs, wearing a threadbare old maroon dress and scruffy leather jacket. Her eyes are in stark contrast to those of the Deputy, filled with turmoil and worry as she rushes on.
“Girls, you’re OK! Oh thank God. I heard about the explosion…I can’t believe it…”
She sweeps us both into her arms, locking us in tight, the stench of tobacco that she carries along with her briefly overpowering the odour of scorched flesh and smoke that continues to linger in the air.
Releasing us, she quickly gazes upon the minor wounds we carry, before inspecting our eyes in a wholly different manner to Deputy Burns. Then, it’s to the man himself that her eyes move, turning to him as he continues to coordinate matters on the other side of the square.
“Who was that man?” she asks intently.
“Deputy Commander of the City Guard,” says Tess, looking at him once more with an element of fascination.
“A Savant? A member of the Court?” asks Mrs Carmichael quickly.
“That, and more,” Tess says. “He was a Mind-Manipulator.”
A hint of concern shows in our guardian’s eyes.
“He read your minds?” she asks, looking directly at us with a frown.
“Yeah,” I say. “He wanted to see what happened from our viewpoint. Nothing major.”
“That’s all?”
“Yup,” remarks Tess. “It was kinda weird. It didn’t hurt or anything, it just felt, I don’t know, I can’t think of the word…”
“Intrusive,” I offer.
“Yeah, that’s it. Intrusive. Like finding some random person in your bedroom, rooting through your personal stuff.”
Mrs Carmichael takes a breath, but continues to look concerned.
“Is something wrong, Mrs Carmichael?” I ask.
She seems to right herself, pulling her lips up into an awkward smile.
“No, nothing. I’m just…as long as you girls are OK, that’s all that matters to me.”
She pulls us into another hug, displaying far more affection than normal. Mostly, she’s fairly tough, not the type to cry or get emotional about things. It’s a symptom of the job, really. Half of those who come to the academy will end up back on the street later in life. Getting too attached to us isn’t usually part of the job.
It’s clear, however, that those she’s known the longest are quite dear to her.
She turns from the scene, seemingly unwilling to spend too long looking at it. Or maybe it’s the Deputy who she’d prefer to avoid. Her views on the Enhanced, and the Savants in particular, are fairly well documented around the academy.
“Come now, girls. You’ve done all you can here. Let’s go back home. You can tell me all about it there.”
With a rare haste – Mrs Carmichael doesn’t tend to do anything quickly these days – she ushers us away from the scene.
Sparing one final glance at Deputy Burns as she goes.
4
That night, Tess and I are the talk of the town.
Well, the academy at least.
Our mere presence down at Culture Corner that morning during the explosion would have been enough to garner plenty of interest from the youngsters. The fact that we actually helped out, and spoke with a Savant – and a Mind-Manipulator at that – is likely the most exciting news to be shared around the occupants of Carmichael’s for many a year.
Most of all, however, it’s the fact that we actually had our minds read that causes the biggest stir. Around here, the mere existence of Mind-Manipulators and Mind-Movers has always been considered little more than rumour. Now, we have definitive confirmation that such beings are out there, capable of mental feats that are, frankly, frightening.
Sitting in the drab and dreary canteen at dinnertime, we find ourselves being constantly harassed by the ground floor dwellers of the orphanage. At first, we have no problem in telling our tale, recounting the day’s events as the children gather round, hanging on our every word.
For the most part, I take the lead – Tess isn’t much of a raconteur – giving the kids the essentials of the story without going into too much gory detail. I know that Mrs Carmichael wouldn’t want them hearing of such things. And, well, I’d rather not think about them either.
By the time I’m done with the first round, however, several others have gathered, some coming in half way through the story and others appearing right at the end. Naturally, I’m begged to tell it again.
When a second telling turns into a third and fourth, however, I’m beginning to grow weary of it all. Each time, I provide less detail and skip through the events without much enthusiasm. Truth be told, it’s not exactly something to be enthusiastic about, seeing so many good, innocent people die.
Yet, there’s no denying that it was exciting. Around here, little of note happens, years passing by without any sort of incident to rival what happened out there in Culture Corner. And for these kids in particular, such an event is likely to provide enough fuel for months of gossip and rumour and little re-enactments when it comes to playtime.
The appearance of Mrs Carmichael, however, is enough to douse the flames, her mere presence bringing some semblance of order back into the room.
“Come on now, kids, leave the girls alone. They’ve been through enough today as it is.”
The kids scatter, giggling as they return to their old wooden tables and benches, tucking back into the gruel that is the most regular feature of our dinnertime diets. Occasionally, if we’ve had a good week or month, or it’s a particularly special occasion – such as a leaving party for one of our senior members after g
etting granted a housing licence – we will have a more hearty meal.
Some nice soup for starters, perhaps, followed by a bit of proper cooked meat, like chicken, along with potatoes grown over in the agricultural district in the east of town. Then, if we’re really lucky, a bit of cake might be passed around. Chocolate is my favourite.
But that’s rare. Mostly, it’s the processed gruel that we have to endure, tasteless and runny, but containing all the vital nutrients the body needs.
Apparently.
Given the self-sufficient nature of the academy, it’s the kids in transition who generally take charge of cooking and serving the food. They plod around, fetching our empty bowls when we’re done, some of them sneered at and mocked by the kids beneath them. Soon enough, some of those kids will reach working age. When they can’t find work, they won’t be sneering anymore.
One of the transitioners, however, plods a lot louder than most. As Tess and I quietly discuss the day’s events, in private now, the sound of heavy footsteps behind us precedes his presence.
Before he even reaches the table, I know who it is.
We both turn to see his meaty hands reaching out to scoop up our bowls.
“You done?” he asks, his voice like a foghorn.
Tess quickly inspects the remains of her bowl and offers a look of disgust.
“Yeah, Drum, I think we are.”
Drum, of course, isn’t his real name. His proper given name is Josh, I think. Frankly, it’s been so long since I heard anyone call him that that I can’t be sure anymore. Even Mrs Carmichael uses his nickname.
It’s his gigantic frame, you see. That heavy footfall of his, and the steady pace he tends to keep. Basically, it’s like hearing a drum beating as he walks, and you can always hear him coming before he appears.
For a boy of 16, he’s simply gigantic. I swear there must be some old Brute blood in him, maybe from a good few generations ago. Surely, somewhere back in his family tree, a Brute got together with a regular Unenhanced, and somewhere down the line, Drum popped out.
Really, he’s that big.
It wouldn’t be too hard to believe, to be honest. Enhanced and Unenhanced have bred for generations, all the way back to when the Enhanced were first created.
Back then, hundreds of years ago, they were simply the result of genetic engineering. Science experiments to create ‘superior’ beings for the military, humans modified for war. Soldiers and scouts and things like that. It’s in their blood, and that’s why the Brutes and Hawks and Dashers still primarily work in that same field today.
The creation of Savants was just the next step. Areas of the brain were unlocked, creating people with supreme mental capabilities. From there, the sky seemed to be the limit, the human mind outstripping the pace of the natural evolutionary order, people playing God.
Then, God fought back.
Wars were raged with these new fighting forces. New weapons were constructed by the Savants. Cities were decimated. Biological warfare spread, leaving much of the world uninhabitable and toxic. Across the globe, billions died, and the world began to fall into a growing darkness.
And yet, from the ashes, some remained, and even thrived. The Enhanced, led by the Savants, came together and the city of Haven was born, closeted in an area once known as America across a stretch of land unspoiled by the chaos that tore the world to shreds.
They built the city up into its two component parts, giving Outer Haven to the Unenhanced, and keeping Inner Haven to themselves. A symbiotic relationship was formed. We perform most of the work, and they provide security and protection, keeping us safe from any outside threats.
Truly, they need us as much as we need them, their main goal now to create a prosperous world once more. To clear the toxic wasteland beyond our borders, and rebuild the once great nation we shared.
And it’s within that context that their devotion to logic comes to the fore. When the species is under threat, emotion needs to be taken out of the game. As rulers, that is their job, their role. But down here, in the bustling world of Outer Haven, our civil liberties and freedoms are maintained. And while they no longer enjoy such things themselves, they appear to understand that, for us, they’re essential elements of life.
I suppose it’s necessary for them to humour us in that sense, given what we do contribute. I can’t imagine the Savants coming down here and growing the foods they eat, or performing the manual labour that needs doing. They think things up, and we put them into action. That’s the division of labour.
Right now, the highest priority among their ranks seems to be clearing the nearby woods and forested regions outside our borders. To the west and south, vast swathes of land lie waiting to be cultivated and used. If, that is, they can be cleared of their toxicity. As it stands, they’re making some progress, but it’s slow, and much of the land outside of the city remains beyond our reach.
Most striking, perhaps, are the mountains to the northwest. On clear days – of which there are few, owing to the mist that perpetually hovers over the lands – they can be partially visible, grand natural formations way off in the distance.
Only from on high can you really see them, and for me that means hiking over to the eastern quarter, all the way on the other side of the city, where the land rises up a little. From there, the shape of the earth beyond our borders is more visible, something that’s always held a strange allure for me. A yearning, perhaps, to find out what’s out there.
And then, when my eyes lift up to the High Tower, I feel that pang of jealousy. From up there, they can see far and wide, way over to the mountains and the forests and woods. Maybe even to the coast, far to the east, beyond the swamps and old relics of crushed cities that scatter the earth.
It’s just another perk of life as a Savant. One that, ironically, they probably don’t even appreciate. Devoid of any deep emotion, I wonder what they feel when they see the towering peaks, and imagine how prosperous the world once was?
Do they feel anything at all? Anything beyond a desire to see our species prosper? They may think they’re more evolved, more advanced, but that’s not how I look at it.
To me, they’re handicapped. To me, they’re inhuman.
As far as I see it, advancing the human race isn’t what they’re doing. Because they’re not human at all.
5
Before Drum can plod off with our half-eaten bowls of gruel, he lumbers onto the bench in front of us to take a break at our invitation.
For all his physical strength and size, he’s rather lacking in the mental side of things. There’s a perpetual look of puzzlement on his face, something that’s certainly hindering his attempts to find work. Occasionally, he’ll perform some basic manual labour jobs – work for which you’d think he’d be ideally suited – but even those are few and far between for someone like him.
As it is, his time at the academy is likely running short. He’s been of working age for over a year now, and with work in such short supply, Mrs Carmichael will have little choice but to offer his bed up to someone else soon enough when one of the youngsters comes of age.
It’s a sad state, really. Aside from Tess, Drum is my favourite person here. I’ve known him for years, and from the first day I met him was endeared to his nature – despite his colossal size, he’s of a quiet and shy disposition, a gentle giant if ever there was one.
Truth be told, he’s like a not-so-little brother to me.
As he lowers himself onto the bench, his deep but quietly spoken voice rumbles from inside his cavernous body.
“Are you OK?” he asks, finding it difficult to make eye contact as the question drops from his plentiful lips.
I can’t help but smile at him. Not one of the other inhabitants of this place has asked us how we are, except Mrs Carmichael of course. All of them are far more interested in hearing about what happened, and none have even made reference to the cuts on my forehead, or the bandage wrapped around Tess’s upper right arm.
His
eyes, however, linger on our war wounds, growing tight with concern as they inspect us.
“We’re both fine, Drum,” I say. “But thanks for asking.”
“Yeah, it’s just a scratch,” adds Tess, tapping her fingers on her bandage to show that there’s no pain at all.
A smile builds up on Drum’s face, and his dark brown eyes grow a little brighter.
“Good. I heard the explosion from here,” he says. “I didn’t know you were down there, though. Was it…scary?”
Now that is a question we’ve fielded all evening. I haven’t yet given a truthful response though, telling the kids that it was more exciting than scary. I guess that’s what Mrs Carmichael would prefer me to tell them. She won’t want any of the more easily frightened ones having nightmares.
Drum, however, deserves the truth, and before Tess can offer up her usual bravado, I say: “I was scared, yeah. Had we been a few metres closer, we could both be dead.”
Tess nods to my side. Drum’s eyes crinkle up a little tighter.
“But it’s all OK now,” I make sure to add. “I’m sure it won’t happen again.”
“You really think so?” asks Drum. “Was it the Fanatics?”
“Yup,” says Tess. “But security’s going to be much tighter now. The Consortium will no doubt send more Enhanced down, more of the City Guard. More damn eyes on us.”
“That’s a good thing though, Tess. More Hawks, in particular, to keep an eye on things,” I say.
“Good and bad. We don’t exactly want loads of Enhanced wandering around do we? These are our streets, not theirs.”
I shrug. “As long as it makes the people more safe, I’m on board. At least temporarily.”
As we speak, Mrs Carmichael’s craggy old voice barks from across the room.
“Drum, break’s over now. Come on, there’s clearing up that needs doing.”
Drum nods subserviently. “Yes, Mrs Carmichael. Sorry, Mrs Carmichael.”