by T. C. Edge
The man doesn’t seem so sure.
“Really, it’s no trouble. My umbrella will protect us. There’s no need to damage your clothes…”
“Um…they’re damaged enough as it is,” I say. “Thank you anyway.”
With my head still a little woozy, I step away from the stranger and head towards the square. It’s deserted now, protective awnings and blinds quickly extending out from buildings, offering cover for the large screens and shop windows and anything else that might be under threat from the poisonous rain.
Many spread over the pavement, providing shelter for pedestrians caught with nowhere to go. They huddle there, looking to the skies, dark and brooding and rumbling with thunder.
Nearby, a shelter awaits for such situations, dug into the ground beneath the city streets. They litter the city, providing temporary refuge for when the acid rain falls. Down the street, I see a few people rushing towards the nearest one, disappearing through the entrance and into the shadows.
I have no interest in joining them.
Covered as I am in a thick jacket and hood, and not far from the academy, I turn on my heels and run, thrusting my exposed hands in my pockets as I go to shield my skin.
I splash through quickly forming puddles of poison, and see more people frantically search for sanctuary. Most are fully protected. Some aren’t, foolish enough to leave their homes without sufficient clothing, the rain assaulting any bare areas of skin and flesh as they sprint for the nearest shelter.
I aim my sight on home, though, only a block or two away, running as fast as I can manage without falling.
And as I do, a long way away, right on the other side of the city, I hear a booming sound. Heavy, deep, shaking the concrete beneath my feet.
It’s not the alarm warning of the deluge. And it’s not a crack of thunder from the stormy skies.
It’s something else entirely. A sound I recognise from only days before.
It can only be one thing…
The Fanatics have struck again.
15
When I arrive back at the academy, my jacket is sizzling.
I rush through the door, the night now growing late, to find the main reception hall deserted and dark, only the soft glow of a security light on the ceiling providing any illumination.
I shed my jacket and give it a quick shake, shifting any remaining droplets of acid rain. As I do, a couple make contact with the backs of my hands, bringing about an immediate sensation of pain. I’m quick to rub them dry, but the acidity of the rain is enough to leave a mark.
I make a mental note to add a fresh coating of anti-toxic wax to the coat. I haven’t done so in a while – hence the smell of burning that rises from the fabric.
It was, however, sufficient enough to prevent any water from penetrating through to my under layers of clothing. I hang the jacket over on a hook in the communal closet, and note that a couple of other jackets appear to be shining wet.
I recognise them both.
One, made of black leather and capable of repelling the most lethal of downpours, is owned by Mrs Carmichael. The other, less durable and yet with enough fabric to be made into a sizeable tent, can only belong to Drum.
Cleary, both were caught out in the rain, and both have returned recently. Perhaps they were out together? Maybe she’d escorted him to a job interview of some kind?
My mind, however, has no space for such queries right now. Not with everything that’s gone on today. To say it’s been the busiest and most intriguing of my life is quite the understatement. And now, a fresh new concern is bubbling…
Have the Fanatics set off another bomb?
With the ground floor now cleared of youngsters, I hurry towards the back of the hall and enter down a short corridor. Through a door on the left are the canteen and kitchen. To the right is the common room.
I turn right, opening the door to find the room dark and deserted. I flick on the light and move towards the old television set in the corner. It’s about as old a model as you’ll find in the city, nothing like the larger screens and holographic projectors the wealthier residents can afford.
I tap it on and set it to the only televised channel, which broadcasts noteworthy news and that’s about all. It’s more of a public service tool than anything to be used for entertainment, updating the citizens on important notices that the Council of the Unenhanced need us to hear, or notifying us of any doctrinal alterations the Consortium wish to pass down from on high.
When I tap it on, it’s more in hope than expectation that there will be news about any latest attack, if that is in fact what it was. Mostly, news will filter down several hours after it occurs, with broadcasts and announcements only made when they’re worthy of being seen by the masses.
My hope is slim, and quickly dashed. The screen is currently filled with nothing but re-runs of the ceremony earlier, something that I’m beginning to grow sick of already.
Once more, I have to suffer the sight of my face plastered across the enormous screens. I’m quick to turn it off, unwilling to witness my embarrassing interview all over again.
If there was an attack, I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out.
Returning to the reception hall, I begin wearily traipsing up the spiral staircase, my head still aching from my encounter in the alley.
When I reach the second floor, I step into the vacant bathroom and take a look in the mirror. My forehead is covered in dried red blood. I look utterly grim.
I wash the blood away, before conducting a closer inspection of the cut. I’m no doctor, but it doesn’t look like it needs stitches. Just a bit of medical tape should do the trick, something my guardian is sure to have.
Returning to the corridor, I set my sights towards the end. Beneath Mrs Carmichael’s door, a thin sliver of light cuts through the darkness.
She’s still up.
I move towards her room, passing my own on the left, and the sound of muffled voices reaches my ears.
Curious. For all her eccentricities, Mrs Carmichael hasn’t been known to talk to herself. Not yet at least.
The idea of her receiving a night-time visitor is equally dubious.
I consider leaving it for now – the cut, I’m sure, will be fine if left overnight – but am drawn in by the familiar tones of the second voice in the room.
Drum?
I inch forward now, my curiosity piqued, and carefully set my ear to the door. The voices grow a little clearer, just about audible as my patron’s gravelly tones creep through the wood.
“Now, Drum,” I hear her say, “are we all clear? You’re not to speak about what you saw to anyone.”
“Yes, Mrs Carmichael.”
“And particularly Brie,” she adds.
My chest tightens as I hear my name.
Silence.
“Drum…promise me.”
“Yes, Mrs Carmichael. I…I promise, Mrs Carmichael.”
Another delay. I little puff of smoke spreads from beneath the door, wafting up my nose.
“Good boy. Now, off you go to bed…it’s getting late…”
My body reacts like a bolt.
I step back from the door, retreating as quickly and quietly as I can manage. My hand feels in the dim light for my door handle, just to the left, and I open up and slip inside.
I’m just in time. Shutting the door tight, I hear a few more muffled words beyond, growing louder as the door to Mrs Carmichael’s room opens. Then, the plodding sound that always precedes Drum’s presence, his heavy footfall slowly drifting by along the corridor outside the room.
I don’t breathe until his footsteps have faded, descending down the staircase to the floor below.
What was that all about? I wonder. What did Drum see?
A coughing, spluttering sound breaks my thoughts and makes me jump for the second time that night. Behind me, over in her bed, Tess murmurs drunkenly in her sleep, her stomach still bubbling and grumbling. She groans and turns over in the pitch black, but
doesn’t wake.
I stand for a moment by the door, working out what to do next. My weary body and mind are now fully awake again, the mention of my name blazing my curiosity to life.
I pace towards my bed and take a seat, the wooden frame creaking a little under my weight. Snatching up my glowstick from the bedside table, I twist its end and it begins to glow, growing brighter the more I rotate.
I stop when there’s enough light to see Tess from across the room, her face twitching and contorted in discomfort as she sleeps. It serves her right, really, guzzling down that wine like she did and ogling Rycard in plain sight of his wife.
Tess has a lot to learn about tact, that’s for sure.
As I sit there, another waft of smoke filters up my nose. Mrs Carmichael must be on one of her chain smoking sessions in there, puffing away like it’s going out of fashion. I stand and move back towards the door, leaving the glowstick on the bed, and peek my head back out into the corridor.
Her light is still on, a tobacco infused mist hanging around at the bottom of her door. Inside, I hear the faint sound of music playing, soothing tones aimed at guiding her towards her bed.
But not yet.
I make the decision, and move into the corridor and towards her room. I knock lightly, and hear the mixed confusion and concern in her voice as she answers. Anyone coming to her at this time can only be a bad thing…
“Yes, who is it?”
I answer by way of opening the door. She sits within a cloud of smoke at her desk, her fading blue eyes frowning at my interruption.
“Brie? I thought you were sleeping?”
She examines my body, and notes that I’m not wearing my nightclothes.
“Have you been out somewhere?” she questions. Then she notices the cut on my head, which she presumes must be the reason for my midnight intrusion. “What happened to you?”
The worry in her voice is immediately clear.
I instinctively raise my fingers to where her eyes sit, touching the cut. It appears to be dribbling blood again.
“Oh…it’s nothing really. I just knocked my head.”
“Well, that much is obvious, Brie,” she says, standing from her chair. “Come in, let’s take a look at that.”
I move in and shut the door behind me, coughing as I do. She darts to a little window on the wall and opens it up, before tapping on an extractor fan to help suck away the smoke.
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company at this time.”
That’s not strictly true. Drum was just in here…
Opening up a drawer, she extracts a little pot of antiseptic cream and some medical tape.
“Sit down here, lets get you sorted out.”
As she begins mopping up the fresh flow of blood, she once more questions how the little wound was inflicted.
“Like I say, I just knocked my head,” I tell her.
My words are a little short. If she can keep secrets, so can I. Although, there’s nothing for me to really say on the matter anyway. Getting spooked and running into a large refuse bin is hardly an interesting story.
She doesn’t push it as she continues her work. Once she’s done, she retreats to her chair and pours me a little glass of whiskey. I shake my head.
“Drink it,” she orders. “It’ll help soothe the pain.”
“It doesn’t really hurt,” I say.
“Well, drink it anyway. After what you’ve been through today, you probably need it…”
I scoop up the glass and take a sip, and an immediate sensation of burning follows in my throat.
“Jeez…what is this, acid rain!” I cough.
She laughs. “It’s an acquired taste.”
“You’re telling me.”
Some, like Tess, seem to acquire it quicker than others.
Mrs Carmichael shuffles a little deeper into her seat, and sends a quarter glass of the burning liquid down her throat with no recoil at all. Then she fills another, before zeroing in on me again.
“So, tell me about today. How was it visiting Inner Haven?”
The question is innocent, yet I know what sort of answer she’s looking for.
“Weird,” I answer truthfully.
A little smile immediately creeps up her face.
“It’s lifeless, colourless,” I continue. “The people walk about like robots, all smiling fake smiles and being polite. They even have these posture police who make sure no one’s adopting negative body language or expressions. Did you know about that?”
“I’ve heard,” she says. “Nothing you’re saying surprises me, Brie. I know all about Inner Haven.”
“Really? How?”
She’s never really told me this before. Mostly, I’ve always thought her bitterness has come from hearsay, and the sort of negative gossiping about Inner Haven that fills the local drinking holes she frequents.
“Oh, I’ve spoken with many people who have been there in my time. This line of work I’m in…I get to speak with all sorts. Outer Haven isn’t short of a few who know the workings of Inner Haven. If you keep your ear to the ground, you hear things.”
“You probably know a lot more than me, then. I just got a superficial look, and I didn’t much like it.”
“And Tess?”
I shrug. “She seemed more enamoured than me…with one thing in particular.”
The look in her eye requests I elaborate.
“We met Sophie’s husband, Rycard. He’s a Hawk. Tess…well, she got a bit drunk and couldn’t keep her eyes off him.”
“You got drunk?”
“No, not me…only Tess. We had dinner at their apartment, and she overindulged in apple wine. Don’t worry, she’s paying for it now, I can assure you…”
She frowns, looking less than pleased at the revelation. I wonder if I’ve said too much and got my best friend into trouble.
Yet, her frown appears to be based on more than just Tess’s inebriation.
“I thought you were meant to be going to a banquet or something?” she queries.
“We were. It was called off after what happened.”
“I see. It doesn’t surprise me. The ceremony was just for show, as I told you. After the, um, interruption, there would be no point in carrying out the banquet. I’ll bet they hated that,” she says with a grin.
“The hijack?”
“Oh yes,” she crackles gleefully. “Those Savants love their order. It must have been killing them that the Nameless took over their broadcast. Even they probably felt some anger at that…”
“It sounds like you know who they are,” I say.
Her eyes round on me. Her grin drops. She scoops up her whiskey again and, with the room now mostly cleared of smoke, lights up a fresh cigarette. It’s a ploy she uses when she wants to think…or delay.
Eventually, when her answer comes, it’s hardly revelatory.
“Not really. Again, just a few bits and pieces.”
“Like what?” I question.
“It’s not worth discussing, Brie. All I know is that they’re a resistance group of some kind who are opposed to the doctrine of the Consortium. You get these sorts of rebel groups all the time. They come and go.”
She returns her attention to her cigarette. She knows more than she’s letting on. What she doesn’t know, however, is that Rycard has already spilled the beans.
“So, you don’t know that they’re hybrids then?” I ask flatly.
Her old eyes flash for the tiniest of moments, before regaining their cool poise.
“I’ve heard that, yes,” she says. “Hybrids are outlawed, so it’s only logical that they’d fight the system. But…who told you that?”
“Rycard,” I answer. “Sophie’s husband. He’s a member of the City Guard.”
“A member of the City Guard? He shouldn’t be so loose with his tongue…”
“I don’t see why not. All this cloak and dagger stuff…it makes no sense. Why doesn’t everyone know about the Nameless and who they are?”
&n
bsp; “Because, like I say, the Savants like to keep order. They don’t want people knowing about a group that could be a threat to them. After today, though, I guess there’s no stopping it. There are already rumours all across the city.”
“I know,” I say. “I’ve heard them. I went for a quick walk when I got back, over to the main intersection. Most people think they’re pranksters, like Deputy Burns said…”
“Most people are sheep,” she returns bitterly. “They don’t know how to think for themselves. I’m not sure going for a walk was a good idea though, Brie. It might be best to keep a low profile.”
“Why? No one cares about me.”
Her eyes turn a little shifty, and her voice deepens.
“You never know who’s out there,” she says. “People have agendas.”
My mind turns to the shadow in the alley.
“What do you mean?”
She seems to remember herself, her face brightening again.
“Just…no, nothing. You know me, Brie…I’m in one of those moods. Just be careful, OK. Don’t go out alone, especially at night.”
Her words send a shiver up my spine. More questions boil to the front of my mind, but she swats them away like flies, gulping down her whiskey and stubbing out her cigarette with a fresh haste. It appears that she wants this conversation to end.
Then she turns to the little clock, ticking endlessly on the wall.
“Wow, would you look at the time. It’s been a long day. Best get some sleep, hey?”
I nod, the lateness of the hour forcing me to agree. Before I leave the room, however, I pose one more question.
“Did you hear that boom earlier?” I ask. “I felt a rumble out in the streets.”
“Just the storm, I’m sure,” she tells me casually. Clearly, she can’t have felt it like I did. “Now off you go, get some sleep. I’ll check on your cut tomorrow.”
I do as she says, returning to my room to find Tess now snoring loudly. It matters not.
Despite my weary limbs and tired eyes, I doubt I’ll sleep much tonight.
16
The following morning reveals the truth of what I spent the night obsessing about.