by T. C. Edge
“Wow, that long.” No wonder none of this fazes her. “So your parents were both hybrids, right? Were they part of the Nameless too?”
“Yeah,” she says. For the first time, that smile slips. “They, um, were killed…”
I go quiet for a second.
“Sorry. I…I suppose that’s common for people like us.”
The smile reappears. It seems a little forced this time.
“Yeah, all part of the gig. I don’t really worry about death anymore. No point, not when you see people you care about die so often.”
“I wish I could be the same.”
“No, you don’t,” she informs me, zeroing in with those penetrative green irises. “To be the same, you’ve gotta see a lot of people die. You don’t want that, trust me. You don’t want that at all…”
“I guess I might not have a choice in the matter,” I say, thinking again of my friends.
“None of us do. But we do what we can, Brie. Now come on, our job is to help protect Lady Orlando. Let’s get our heads back in the game.”
She switches back to her warrior persona, her eyes narrowing and turning a darker shade of jade. That smile of hers slides back into neutral, and together we move towards the main entrance to the hall, where our full force here at Nameless HQ are gathering.
All will leave now, aside from a few of the technicians who will continue to operate from here and keep a lookout over the city. Adryan, to my relief, will be staying with them, along with the Fangs and Rhoth who will hold down the fort.
As everyone gathers, I quickly go to Adryan and pull him into a dark corner of the hall, around the side of a pillar and into an alcove where we can get some measure of privacy.
The slight frost that’s developed between us thaws immediately without the need for words. I grab his cheeks and pull him towards my lips, dragging his athletic frame down to mine, all decked out in armour.
The kiss is brief, but somehow needed. I find that it serves to give me strength, a necessary component of our partings, which have grown more regular.
Part of me wants more. Part of me wants to stay in this little alcove and leave my lips on his for a while longer. Part of me…part of me wants a lot more than that.
But that part of me won’t get what it wants. It is the part that still sees all of this as being real, part of a regular life. The part that still harbours some hope that everything will return to normal soon, and perhaps I’ll be able to properly explore just what the hell this is between my fake husband and me.
I cling to that part, because I need to. It helps to give me balance at a time when I might just topple over. The transition to becoming a soldier, a warrior, a killer…it isn’t easy. And standing here, kissing Adryan without the need for words, all helps to straighten me out.
But it doesn’t last. Of course it doesn’t. It’s just a tiny bit of respite as the world crumbles and burns, a personal need that gives me some pleasure amid the pain.
I kiss him, and then leave him. And that’s that.
No words, no smiles or hugs. Nothing. Just a kiss, and I’m gone.
Marching off to war.
174
We travel as a group of about twenty, most of us soldiers.
There are, however, a couple of Lady Orlando’s older advisors with us who decided to stay with her rather than retreat to the mines. I’ve seen them around and about without ever being introduced, and simply know them as the sort of wise old sages to lend support to our main leader.
Both are men with grey hair and crooked backs, usually dressed in more ceremonial attire – at least when compared to the rest of the Nameless – rather than the rugged clothing and military fatigues that adorn the rest of us (although, right now, they’re wearing body armour as protection). They’re the type who might just slow our step, but who are clearly close enough to our leader to be deemed worthy of the journey.
I suppose Lady Orlando recognises the need for other people’s opinions. Taking the ‘Cromwellian’ route and becoming a despot isn’t exactly the sort of path to engender trust among the people, and having these two old gents, as well as military commanders like Beckett, on board to give counsel is a fairly wise choice.
So far, while she’s had the final say, she’s always seemed to welcome other voices to the party before choosing which path to take. And when it comes to it, if she wants to get the whole of Inner, and Outer, Haven onside, she’ll need to show that she’s someone who will be a woman for the people, not above them as Cromwell made himself clear to be.
With that in mind, I assume that these two old advisors are regular Unenhanced, spokespeople for Outer Haven as Burns was supposed to be for Inner Haven. The plan was most likely to show a collective front, including all people from all parts of the city, standing together in union, displaying a vision of the future.
Quite unlike the Consortium, rarely even venturing beyond the summit of the High Tower, Lady Orlando will show what a true leader, a true ruler, should be. And you know, I’m beginning to see her as one, despite the terrible atrocity she so recently green lit.
Sometimes, I guess, you’ve got to betray your own humanity in order to save it. And now, in a city that was built to raise the Savants up onto the shoulders of the masses, there are so few of them left.
Lady Orlando, Adryan…they’ve just become a dying breed around here.
The rest of our company are soldiers. Kira, Freya, Rycard, me. The other hybrids who seem to make up Lady Orlando’s personal guard. There are a few others too, leaving only Astor behind to recover from his wounds.
Apparently, he looks set to lose that right arm of his. His days as a sniper might well be done.
The journey back to the city is led by Kira. The concoction of her powers makes her an unbelievable asset, capable of some truly wondrous feats that, even to someone like me, are quite something.
As we journey through the tunnel just off across the fields behind the church, the very same one Zander and I escaped through when I last left the city a few days ago, she stops occasionally and rests her hands to the cold rock floor.
She can feel, hear, smell, and see it all. Shutting her eyes, a map of the world around her is created, complete with beating hearts and stamping feet and the whistling of the wind that gives shape to the buildings and streets.
From here in the darkness, she knows just who and what are where, all around us. And to top it all off, she’s a Dasher too, capable of displacing and disappearing like a fading bolt of lightning.
It’s no wonder, really, why she’s been able to sneak around the streets of Outer Haven with such proficiency and without detection, given her remarkable skillset.
Creeping through the tunnels, we rush as fast as we can in the company we’re in. Lady Orlando, in particular, requires help as she battles over the uneven terrain, her sight given life by the night vision goggles that cover her eyes.
It’s certainly an interesting look for her, what with the protective body armour she’s wearing, and the dark grey cloak on top. At a glance you might mistake her for a Stalker, albeit a rather immobile and small one…
The sound of war appears to have quietened as we go. According to the latest reports that came in just before we left, some of the City Guards are standing down and holing up around the city, while the Con-Cops continue to spread east.
The thinking on that front, aside from being a good place to defend, is that the food production factories are all there. With the water treatment plant for Outer Haven already destroyed, it looks as though the Con-Cops have been either ordered or automatically programmed to take possession of all food production facilities in the east, as if they’re expecting a long, drawn-out war of attrition.
Cromwell, whether dead or not, has several cards to play. We may have sabotaged his entire operation, but that won’t stop him. It’s hardwired into him to complete his task, and if he’s denied that, perhaps he’ll turn to what so many others do when deprived of what they so desire: revenge
.
The tunnel lasts for a few miles until, with midnight passing, we emerge up onto the streets in the depths of the northern quarter. Quiet and quick as we can, and with all of our hybrids dialling up their senses and scouting ahead, we slip through the night as the carnage of the ongoing war becomes apparent.
Death.
I smell it before I see it.
My Hawk-eyes, such a benefit at times, become a burden. They pick out the dead faces and the mangled bodies. Even in the dark, they see the thick pools of blood and the spare limbs that litter the devastated streets.
It’ll be worse for any Sniffers among us. Kira, and a couple of others, are forced to endure the stench as the streets, strewn with day or two old corpses, become a fetid open-air morgue.
We pass one of the old tunnels of the Nameless, a once-secret place hidden in an old, disused tenement block. At least, that’s what it was. Now, it’s a pile of rubble and flesh and bones, dozens, perhaps hundreds of men lying dead across the sprawling site that became such a crucial battleground as Cromwell’s men sought a pathway to the underlands.
Con-Cops and City Guards and even Stalkers pepper the dirt, along with our own men made apparent by their attire. I see Disposables too, equally easy to spot for the clothing they wear, drawn into the fight after so many years of hiding in the dark shadows, or simply caught in the crossfire as they cowered and fled.
We move on, working south, encountering no resistance at all as the city goes mute. The loss of the High Tower appears to have sucked the sound from the streets, an eerie quiet lingering in the misty, dusty air as we press on, speeding towards our gathered forces.
As we near, Kira holds her hand up at the front, a signal to stop. As one, we stiffen and lift our weapons. It’s a false alarm. From the shadows, a whistling sounds, barely audible to me but, to Kira, very distinct in its rhythm and pattern.
She relaxes, and watching from the recess of a broken wall, I see a soldier shoot out into view. He exchanges a few words with Kira, before she turns and waves us back out.
“One of my scouts,” she tells us. “They’re all watching the streets for us. The paths around here are clear, and the army isn’t far.”
She’s right, and within another ten minutes, with the knowledge that we have eyes watching all possible routes along our path, we find ourselves approaching a significant gathering that looks similar in size and scale to that which ventured forth to the mines only a couple of days ago.
This lot, though, are all soldiers with varying degrees of experience. Drawn from the various battles around the city, they’ve come here for the final surge, all of them dirty and bloodied and covered in grit.
Some have minor wounds; once white bandages, now turned red, wrap around arms and legs and across foreheads. Others look wounded in a different way, mental scars of what they’ve seen having been cut right through their psyches, and showing through their once bright eyes, now turned permanently dark.
They’re all gathered in the old market here in district 2 of the northern quarter, the Conveyor Line sitting unused and dormant nearby and the gate to Inner Haven just about visible ahead.
All entrances to the square are being watched, troops of soldiers tasked with securing each way in and out. And up on the buildings above and around us, Hawks sit watching, and Sniffers sit sniffing, and Bats sit listening for all those who might come to spoil the party.
The operation is slick and well ordered. Several commanders come forward and explain the situation to us, and all eyes turn to Lady Orlando, hidden in her protective armour and dark camouflage, set to finally return to the place she grew up.
She moves towards the centre of the market, and the people gravitate towards her. She removes the night-vision goggles from her face and shows off those ancient lines and wrinkles, and those grey eyes that glint like unbreakable steel.
I expect her to make some sort of speech, to call out from her little lungs across the square, to galvanise the men and women of the Nameless as they look upon her. But she doesn’t. Her mere presence here, stepping foot away from the outerlands and back into the city for the first time in so long, is all she needs.
Quietly, she walks through the throng instead, flanked by her hybrids who will never leave her side. I’m one of them, walking a pace or two behind her, mesmerised by the sight of so many gritty eyes and firm jaws, ready to march upon the city and complete this remarkable revolution.
And what’s most remarkable of all is the lack of opposition. No calls come from above to signal an incoming force. No voices crackle on communicators, telling of another assembly amassing elsewhere, seen by our other scouts across the city. No one, it seems, expected this.
And no one is able to stop it.
Now, all we need is the final word from our covert team to make our move. For Beckett and Marler, and my dear brother to slice their way through the poor City Guards still tasked with guarding the way in.
I spare a thought for Magnus, the giant Brute who I befriended on my early jaunts through the western gate to Inner Haven. Oh, how innocent those days were, when I was courting Adryan and learning about the machinations of the city. When I was working towards my mission of assassinating the big bad wolf up in his lair.
At first, I’d rallied against the terrible idea of murdering a man, even one capable of such things as Cromwell. Now, I stand here a killer of many, a girl who’ll witness the death of thousands more and call it a ‘necessary evil’.
I know I’ve changed, and I suspect I’ve got further to go. The longer this war goes on, the more of my soul will be chipped away. In the end, perhaps I’ll end up little more than the emotionless Savants I so pity, the poor men and women who now lie dead in their droves at the very core of this beacon in the darkness.
I do hope, though, that Magnus is alive. And Titus, his brother, too, who once saved my life in the southern outerlands as I tried to sneak back into the city following my little trip down the river.
I wonder what this war has made of them. I wonder if they’ve taken up arms, under orders from their superiors, to join the fight. I wonder if they’re in Inner Haven, about to face this horde around me, or if they were, in fact, assigned to protect the High Tower, and now lie among the dead at its base.
I wonder a great many things as my mind starts to wander, and a ripple of energy begins to spread through the crowd.
I’m snapped back into focus, my fingers gripping my pulse rifle tight, as if expecting some sudden attack from one of the many ways into this square.
And then, the word reaches my ears, pouring from the buildings above as the Hawks call from their high nests.
The gate is opening.
It’s time to march.
Inner Haven is about to be ours.
175
Crossing the threshold to Inner Haven feels like a watershed moment for me. Sticking close to Lady Orlando, now surrounded by not twenty, but several hundred guards and soldiers, I assume the same is very much true for her.
To the old Savant, the old wife of Artemis Cromwell, this has been decades in the making. For me, well, it’s been only a week or so since I was tossed into that van and ferried towards the REEF to await my impending reconditioning.
But I never expected to return here, and certainly not amongst such a force. I’m a failed assassin, turned invader, marching along with hundreds more who feel the need for vengeance in the depths of their bones. It’s the sort of collective desire for change that clambers over the most seemingly insurmountable odds.
Certainly, I could never have dreamt up this particular image if I slept for a thousand years.
At the gate, our covert team join us. I smile through a steely glare at Zander, who, along with Beckett, quickly takes up command of the many units at their disposal.
They spread forward in a formation of defence as we approach the outer spiral, that main road that coils its way around Inner Haven and right to its core, and my eyes stare up to the dull grey streets and iden
tical buildings that line the perimeter of this inner sanctum of the city.
The difference, when I used to go from the western quarter to Inner Haven, was always so stark. From the vibrant colours and bustling streets to the cold, lifeless order of this world that seems to run on tracks.
Now, the disparity between the worlds is even more stark, here on the outer spirals of the main road at least. Having worked through the devastation and carnage all over the north, to step in here and see the streets, just as pristine as always, is a shocking reminder that this beacon of ours, this city, is far from fair.
The only show of something out of order is the sight of a few bodies to the left and right of the gateway. Their size makes it clear that they’re Brutes, easily dispatched by our strike team, their enormous frames providing little more than a larger target at which to shoot.
And shoot our men did. They took no mercy here. I cast my eyes over them, hoping not to see Magnus or his big brother Titus, but am unable to see through their visors or get a clear view of their faces.
Then my eyes lift as our forward troops advance, making safe the routes ahead so that they can be travelled by our leader. I look to the windows above us, to the many apartments here lived in by the lower ranked residents of the Enhanced, and see frightened faces peeking down from windows in fear that we harbour malevolent intentions.
They can’t be blamed for that. Only hours ago, they saw the High Tower topple. It’s only natural that they look upon us as some invasion force, rather than the emancipators we are.
As we begin to work inward, going down a specific route already determined to be safest by our analysts, the ringing of weapons begins to sound. In my rear position alongside Lady Orlando, I see the fire of blue too, suggesting that there are City Guards still patrolling the area.
Amid the blue, a single red light flares, and though I briefly wonder if it’s from the rifle of a Stalker, I quickly realise it’s actually from Beckett’s. The bright energy rounds come and go sporadically, and the chattering of regular firearms shout into the night as well.