The Enhanced Series Box Set

by T. C. Edge

  All I can hope is that my telepathic words to Zander would have gotten through. I’d shut my eyes tight in that room, and projected those simple words to his consciousness.

  Forgive me, Zander.

  I’ve failed.

  I didn’t hear a reply. I’d been too distracted by Cromwell’s revelations about Woolf, and of the sound of the lift clicking open behind me, and the footsteps that came towards me, and of the needle being stuck into my arm.

  Yet whether he heard me or not, my failure will be quickly discovered. And now, I pray that they’re already moving from the caves and caverns they’ve settled in. I pray that they have some contingency for when their underground city is discovered.

  A means, perhaps, of blocking any entrances and relocating somewhere safe. Or quickly migrating beyond the reach of the Stalkers and Con-Cops once more.

  As yet, they can’t know of the secret tunnel into the underlands that I know of. As yet, they haven’t looked into my thoughts.

  At least, I hope they haven’t.

  Because, truly, my faith has been shaken in my powers, and the trust I give my own knowledge, my own memories. For all I know, they might have been extracting every single relevant memory from my mind for days, only to cover their tracks as Agent Woolf did with Adryan.

  How can I truly know? Perhaps I’ve been here for weeks? Perhaps the northern reaches of the underlands have already been attacked? Perhaps the likes of Sophie and Rycard, and Mrs Carmichael and Tess, and Adryan and Zander, are already dead?

  Perhaps my failure is more total than I know?

  Because, in the end, how can I know? How can I trust my own thoughts and recollections when there are people who can remove them, or hide them, or muddy them to such an extent that they become so indistinguishable?

  All I can do is utilise my own abilities, place some trust in my own powers. And so, sitting there in that dark, silent place, I shut my eyes again and try to search my own cognition. Try to examine the darkest recesses where any concealed memories might be kept.

  And as I do, I feel that pain in my head rise up, that ache growing more acute.

  It’s so severe that it stops me, prevents me from being able to search my memory bank, or speak to Zander, or do anything more than think of the dreadful fate that awaits us all.

  The drug within me, I know, will be suppressing my powers. Weakening my ability to resist when they sift through and search my mind. And my Hawk-eyes too offer further proof, the blackness of the room calling those powers into question, my many gifts blunted and dulled.

  So all I can do is sit here and wait. Wait for someone to come, to give some context to my plight. And when that happens, I can only pray that, somewhere out there, the fight goes on.

  And that, despite my failure, the Nameless have a plan B to turn to.

  112

  Amid such a deep silence, the tiniest of sounds make an impact.

  The thudding of a heart can sound like a pounding drum. The intake of a slow breath can be as loud as a gust of stormy wind. The blinking of an eye can mimic the shutting of a camera lens.

  Right now, with my ears being accosted by the noisy, natural sounds of my body, a fresh assault batters its way into my head.

  Footsteps.

  They’re light, tapping away. Too light for me to hear were it not so quiet. But it is, and I can, the footfall getting nearer until the blank wall to my cell suddenly opens up.

  In the darkness, a sudden burst of light attacks me, the doorway into the room becoming visible as the radiant, white deluge pours in. I shut my eyes, unable to shield them with my bound hands, and turn away as the door quickly shuts and casts the room into darkness once more.

  I open my eyes again, and still see the little dots of white flickered amid the black, searching for the new entrant.

  “Who is it?!” I mumble. “Who’s there?!”

  I turn my eyes left and right, my chest drumming louder, and then see the outline of a shadow, hidden against the wall ahead. The shadow takes shape in the dark, forming into a man. And from that man, a deep voice flows, smooth and calm.

  “You know who it is, Brie,” says Cromwell, standing still before me in the pitch black. Then, he says: “Lights,” and the room begins to glow, slowly growing brighter as I shut my eyes once more.

  I creep the lids open, widening them bit-by-bit to ease the passage of light inside. And gradually, the form of my enemy reveals itself, equally as bright, his white suit always as pure as a newborn baby’s laugh.

  Into those eyes of blue ice I look, across the half-crinkled, half-youthful visage that stares straight back. He offers little expression, studying me in a manner that reminds me a little of my husband.

  My husband…who’s probably dead.

  The thought brings my voice to life.

  “Where’s Adryan?” is the first question I ask.

  I wonder, oh so briefly, if I’ve asked that question before. If my memories have been erased or hidden, perhaps floating somewhere in the depths of me that, right now, with these drugs in my system, I cannot explore.

  He doesn’t react in any fashion, but just stares right at me. Then, after a moment, he answers.

  “He’s here,” he says quietly. “In another room.”

  My heart blooms a little, providing me with some false hope, inadvisable in such a place, such a time. A hope that can’t possible lead anywhere. Adryan will, whether today or tomorrow or a week from now, be killed. His current location, so close to me here, isn’t relevant.

  “Is he safe?” I ask weakly. “Have you…hurt him?”

  I watch as Cromwell’s head refuses to nod, or shake, or offer any signal beyond his words. There’s no way to read his body language, no way for me to know if he’s lying or telling the truth. All I can go on is what he tells me.

  And right now, all he says is: “He’s alive.”

  I suppose it’s foolish for me to expect anything more. Foolish to give voice to any hope that he’ll make it out of here intact, wherever we happen to be. He won’t. I won’t. We are nothing but pawns in a greater game.

  And our part is done.

  Yet, a new question forms as my thoughts tumble. Cromwell is here. Does that mean I’m in the High Tower still? Would he have journeyed beyond it just to see me? Or is it merely hours after our last meeting? Has it only been such a short period of time since he sprung his trap?

  I have little to go on. There’s no thirst to me, no hunger. I don’t feel as if any time has progressed beyond mere hours. Maybe my mind hasn’t yet been explored. Maybe there is still some hope that Zander has been given some warning of the inevitable assault to come.

  I decide to ask.

  “How long have I been here?” comes my croaky voice.

  “Not long,” comes the swift and ambiguous reply.

  “Where am I?” is my next question.

  “Where do you think you are?” retorts Cromwell.

  I search his eyes and still see no change in him.

  “The High Tower,” I say. “I’m still in the High Tower.”

  Now, the tiniest of changes: a smile, thin and knowing.

  “That’s right, Brie. You’re still here.”

  He begins to move now as he speaks, his form like a block of ice, thawing and melting as it glides towards me. He veers to the right, slowly walking around my back, taking his time before returning in front of me.

  I don’t know why he does it. Whether to delay or intimidate, I can’t tell. I suppose it doesn’t matter either way. I have no control here.

  “How do you feel, Brie,” he asks, still moving in front of me, walking slowly back to the wall. He turns and looks upon me, his eyes taking in my full form.

  I have no idea how to answer the question. Physically, I feel weak, drained of life. Mentally, I feel shot, emotional, desperate. And yet, there’s a cold detachment in me too, knowing what will happen to me. Knowing that I have no control over proceedings.

  In some strange, warped, sen
se, having no control is liberating. Soon enough, I’ll be dead, and then all of this will be over. A part of me longs for that, longs for some finality to it all.

  Yet, the concoction of emotions inside me is so utterly confusing. One moment, I’ll feel numb and uncaring. The next, as thoughts of my friends and family come, I’ll feel like crying and screaming and begging for some sort of mercy.

  And so, no answer falls from my lips. I just sit and stare and let him come to his own conclusion.

  He obliges, nodding subtly, and then slowly reaches into his jacket pocket. And as his fingers withdraw, they bring with it a small piece of card that is so familiar to me.

  Opening it up, he looks down upon the image, and then back up at me.

  “This is your inspiration, is it?” he asks coolly. “You’re doing this because of your parents?”

  The mention of them brings one side of me alive. The side that still wishes to live, wishes to know the truth. The side that will resist to the end my inevitable fate.

  “What do you know about them?” I plead. “Who was my mother? Tell me that, at least…”

  I stare at him, open-eyed, and watch as he looks upon the faces of my parents once more. He folds the card, shutting away my hope.

  “You think I know?” he says. “I don’t. I don’t recognise either of them. I can see you wish to know the truth, but I don’t have it, Brie. Yet I do find it quite…funny…how you grew up under the guardianship of someone else, some foster parent, just like how all Savants do. You see, you’re not so unlike us, are you?”

  “I’m nothing like you,” I bite. “You’re a murderer, a genocidal tyrant. You don’t value life. You don’t even understand it!”

  “Oh, how wrong you are. I understand life better than you do, better than anyone. I understand the true tenets of life, and its true meaning.”

  “Enlighten me, Director,” I growl, watching as his face brightens a little.

  He steps a foot closer, until he’s looking down on me from a greater height.

  “Life, Brie, is about strength. The weak perish, and the strong rise. Evolution has brought us to this point. I am merely speeding it along.”

  “Evolution!” I snicker. “You - the Savants - are not a product of evolution. You were created. The only natural people are over in Outer Haven. They’re the very people you want to destroy and enslave.”

  “On the contrary,” surges Cromwell’s voice, “evolution shows its hand in many forms. Evolution gave rise to an anomaly in the natural world: the Homo sapien. Humans are a miss-step, Brie, and human consciousness and the development of complex emotions are nothing but a tool for evil. However, you are right, humans did give rise to us. And yet, I consider that to be evolution too, a speeding of the process that has led us here, to this place, and this time. Evolution created a creature with the ability to direct its own future, to change its own fate. It gave humans the tools to advance their own cause. And that cause was the creation of us, a superior being. I consider that as part of the evolutionary process.”

  “But it’s not natural!” I shout. “None of this is natural…killing innocent people, cutting out all emotion! How can you say complex emotions are a tool for evil?! They give us love, and joy, and laughter, and everything else you don’t understand…”

  “And what of hate, and jealousy, and lust, and greed? What about envy, and pride, and wrath? Every evil in human history has been committed on the back of emotion, Brie. I see a more prosperous, safe world without it. And that’s what I mean to achieve.”

  I stare at him, his words settling. My head aches as I think of some response, some riposte. But somehow, I can’t deny it, can’t deny his assertion.

  With my voice calming now, a hum escapes me.

  “But that’s what being human is, Director Cromwell,” I whisper. “To be human is to have emotion. All the evil things you mention are the price we pay. But there’s so much good too that you don’t understand.”

  “I know,” he says, conceding. “I don’t truly understand love, or see its merits. That wasn’t how I was made, Brie,” he says. “We have our roles here, each of us have our functions. Perhaps this is yours, to question and fight against my doctrines and the policies of my people. That is the part you play. But my part is different. My part is to repopulate this world with my people, and do so without all the terrible sins of the past. And, if people need to die, or be reconditioned to suit that purpose, then I’m afraid that is how it must be done.”

  “And you think that’s OK?” I ask him. “You think that causing panic, and war, and letting people die in the tens of thousands is right?”

  He moves towards the wall, and then turns to me again.

  “This isn’t about right or wrong. This is about function. My function is to see our species proliferate. I do so by taking the most logical path. If that path involves genocide, as you put it, then so be it. The meaning of life, Brie, is to expand, to dominate. And that is what we will do.”

  He lifts his right hand and places it on the wall, and from his lips a new order comes.

  “Full transparency,” he says.

  The wall fades, and immediately the natural light of the world begins to spill into the room, bringing a warming flow along with it. The sun is only just rising, casting the lands in the beautiful, warm colours of dawn.

  It’s a sight that Cromwell can’t appreciate like I can. A sight from the top of the High Tower, the view far more staggering than what I enjoyed in my own apartment on level 51. And looking out, he speaks once more.

  “This world is going to be ours again, Brie,” he says. “One of peace and prosperity. One of law and order. Our species have been a blight on this planet for far too long. But no longer. We will see it restored, and renewed.”

  His eyes flow to the northern quarter, visible immediately ahead. And looking down upon it, he turns to me.

  “You have knowledge that will help us achieve our goals. That is why you are here, Brie. Now sit tight, and try to relax. Someone will be here to see you very shortly.”

  He turns back to me, and drifts forward, opening up the card and revealing the image of my parents once more. He reaches out and lays it down on my lap.

  “You’re strong, Brie,” he says, “and gifted too. Whoever your parents were, I’m sure they would have been proud of what you’ve achieved.”

  I frown at him, his manner so odd. Why say such things?

  “I’ve achieved nothing,” I say. “If I had, you’d be dead.”

  “Yes, but I don’t blame you for that. For those who set you on this path, it was the reasonable, logical thing to do. Perhaps, in the end, your fate was to help us destroy those who would oppose us. And soon, maybe you’ll even begin to see the merits of what we’re trying to do…”

  “I’ll never agree with you,” I growl. “Never.”

  His lips part in a thin smile, and his eyes catch the light of the sun, giving them a strange ethereal glow.

  And as he moves towards the door, he does so with some parting words.

  “Oh…I think you just might.”

  113

  Cromwell’s departure leaves a fresh silence in the room. The boiling in my blood works to send a pulse of adrenaline through me, dousing to some extent the ache in my head.

  I shut my eyes once again and picture my brother’s face, and attempt to project some words to him once more.

  Zander, can you hear me? Zander?

  There’s no link, my powers inhibited by the drugs. I know immediately that I have no way of contacting him. And I know, too, that I’ll probably never see or speak to him again.

  Opening my eyes, I see my parents once more. The picture has, for so long, given me strength, led to so many questions about who they were and what they did. Now, a lot of that mystery has been unravelled, but some still remains that I’ll probably never discover.

  But right now, it isn’t strength that they give me. It’s grief that their faces send around my body, the same gri
ef that you can see hidden behind their eyes. Grief for them that they know they’re going to have to give me up. That they’ll need to spend their lives in secret, running and hiding from the truth.

  A secret that, in the end, they couldn’t conceal.

  A truth that they couldn’t outrun.

  My grief is different. It’s a grief that I’ll never know who they really were. Beyond knowledge of my father’s name and occupation, and what details I’ve deduced of their fate, I know so little. And I’ll never know more.

  I don’t want them on my lap, looking up at me like that. I don’t want the reminder of them in my head, a reminder of what they went through, what I’m about to go through.

  If I believed in some afterlife, perhaps I’d feel some solace right now. I’d have the comfort of knowing that, soon enough, I’ll meet them for the first time on another plane of existence.

  But I believe in no such thing. I am merely my physical existence here and nothing else. When I die, my body will be burned and turned to ash, leaving nothing of me behind. No soul. No ghostly spirit to haunt those I care about, or those who have wronged me.

  So looking at them, all I’m reminded of is my failure. My failure to find out the truth about them. My failure to kill the man who has me chained up in this room. My failure to save all those outside, the teeming masses down below who don’t know what’s coming.

  I turn my eyes from my parents now and look to the view, to the streets below. I try to engage my Hawk abilities, to send my vision forward and examine it all in greater clarity and depth. But I can’t do that either.

  Now, here in this lofty cell, I’m just a normal girl once more, shorn of her powers.

  I wish they’d never manifested in the first place.

  I wish I’d never been set on this path.

  I have nothing to do but stew on it all. Await the person who’ll enter to explore my memories, to discover the information that might just doom us all.

  Now, I’m beginning to understand why I was kept out of the loop, why Lady Orlando and Zander saw fit to feed me only the most essential information to use for my mission. They did it, not to protect me, but to protect themselves, protect their cause.