by T. C. Edge
I’m slowly learning that. Learning that any innocence I had in me before all this started has been lost, snuffed out like the many people I’ve now killed. Learning that the life I once had, one I thought was difficult and on the long road to nowhere, was nothing compared to what it’s become.
But, in the end, I cling to the hope that we’re doing some good. That despite all the casualties, the deaths, all the horror that’s befallen this city, we will come out the other end better than before.
If the next generation can live free in an equitable world, then that will justify everything we’ve done, justify the person I’ve become.
We’ll be able to look back and know that it was all worth it. That all those we lost, all those we killed, didn’t die for nothing.
That, in the end, is all we can hope for.
I fade away as the minutes roll by, sitting next to Tess on that desk, until I wake with a jolt as I threaten to slide off.
Tess smiles down at me.
“OK, let’s get you into bed,” she says.
I slip groggily to the floor and drop straight to my mattress, Tess pulling the single blanket over me and tucking me up tight. Her fingers glide through my hair a couple more times, and I quickly drift away into the darkness as she hovers above me, whispering a few soothing words to send me on my way.
The dreams come that night, beginning the assault that will become a regular fixture for me. Perhaps I’ll be able to dull them, learn some tricks from my brother to make life a bit easier. But until that time, I’m laid bare, my mind a blank canvass to be attacked by the demons that begin to breed within.
They come at me in waves, waking me at intervals. My eyes crack open like a fissure in the earth, and the light breathing of Tess filters comfortingly from across the room, a sound I know so intimately, a sound that helps give me peace.
I check my watch and see that it’s just past midnight, my mind only able to withstand the torment for less than an hour before forcing me to wake. I drop my head to the pillow once more and begin to slip away. It seems like mere seconds before I’m gasping for breath and sitting up again, my body drenched in sweat and eyes damp with tears.
I see faces flashing before me, faces of men and women I’ve killed. Faces of friends I’ve lost or fear will follow. I check my watch again and see that it’s barely past 1AM, and once again the soothing sounds of my sleeping friend filter into my ears.
I take a few deep breaths and try to relax, my body still weary and eyes aching wildly. I fall once more to the pillow, my heart-rate thrashing as the images of blood and death continue to play out before me.
I refocus on Tess’s breathing, and start to fall back into the void of my mind. Back into the pits where the beasts and devils lurk, staring up with their red eyes and sharp fangs and eager claws, ready to drag me back into their horrifying domain.
I’m unable to withstand the lure, casting myself back into my subconscious. It seems intent on destroying me, harassing me with such wild abandon that I continue to wake, again and again, until I can stand it no more.
The final assault brings two faces to my mind that I haven’t seen in a little while. I snap my eyes open, with no intention of trying to fall back asleep, and check my watch to see that it’s a little past 4 AM.
I sit up, and closing my eyes see the forms of my mother and father, so perfectly seared into my memories. See the details of their faces as they gaze at me, just a little baby in their arms, the two of them somewhat forgotten amid all of this mess.
The last time I saw their picture, it was sat in my lap as I sat chained to that horrible metal chair. As I awaited my doom at the summit of the great tower that no longer stands.
I don’t know where that picture is. I don’t know if it fell when the tower did, or was snatched up and taken off to be destroyed or stored as evidence by some guard or agent of Cromwell.
I don’t know where…
My trail of thoughts stops immediately. Sitting up in the darkness, a single word battles forward, growing larger in my mind.
Evidence.
I lift my eyes, slowly towards the ceiling, and imagine what lies beyond. Imagine the floors above, many of which I haven’t seen, but a few of which I have. One sticks to mind; the floor where the Serious Crimes Unit used to operate, where Agent Woolf’s terrible dungeon-like office is found.
I think back to my first and only trip there, but not to the interrogation I endured, or the appearance of Commander Burns, then only a Deputy, as he stepped in to save me.
No, it’s to another room on that floor that I think. To a room just down the corridor, near the central foyer.
A room that, weeks ago, I wished so desperately to enter.
A room where, maybe, I might find some answers.
A room labelled: Archives.
197
I slip from my bed, my body slick with sweat, and move towards the door.
Glancing at Tess, I see her still sleeping soundly, seemingly unencumbered by nightmares as I was. I turn the handle and open the door as quietly as possible, stepping out into the brightly lit hallway here on level 2 where my temporary quarters have been assigned.
I carry a slightly secretive walk, as if I’m up to no good, my keen eyes searching for any guards as I move straight for the main foyer on the floor and the lifts that give access to the rest of the building.
I reach them without encountering a soul, only the faintest sounds of noise still issuing from the main atrium below. Managing a war, it seems, is a 24-7 affair, the main hall now a relentless hive of activity at all hours of the day and night.
Above, however, most of the floors are being used for sleeping and private meetings. I step into a lift and hit the button for floor 12, the elevator doors shutting with an appealing hiss before quickly drifting gracefully up through the core of the structure.
It takes mere moments to cover the levels, the doors hissing open with that same satisfying sound, and the dimly light space appearing before me. I move into the central square, once giving passage to the offices of some of the more high profile officials of the City Guard, and make way towards the purpose of my visit.
The floor is empty, lit only by security lights that pepper the walls. To my eyes, however, the murk is easily penetrated, the room marked ‘Archives’ quickly coming into view.
I hasten my step until I’m at the door, and reach for the handle. I turn it down, and find that it’s locked.
A muted curse word escapes my lips, even though I half expected this.
Thankfully, I’ve come prepared. From the holster on my belt, I withdraw my pistol. I fiddle with the settings and ensure that the silence feature is enabled, before aiming it right where I assume the locking mechanism to be.
I step to the left, aiming at an angle, and then fire from a mere metre away. The bullet rattles loudly off the metal door, pinging off down the corridor before eventually embedding itself in some surface soft enough to accept it.
I swear under my breath again as I look at the damage. There’s little more than a scratch and small dent, the pistol clearly insufficient to penetrate the lock.
I look around the wide corridor, just checking to make sure there’s no one around. Then, aiming at the same spot, I fire off another two rounds, both bouncing off the silver façade before dancing off down the passage as the first one did.
I inspect the lock again. They’ve had some effect. A smile works up my face, and I go again.
A few more rounds are emptied from the clip, battering the lock and spiralling off down the corridor. By the time the gun runs dry, the lock appears to be weakening.
I check my surroundings again, and try to push the door open. It creaks and moans, clearly upset, but refuses to fully surrender.
My boot has a go, kicking hard. The door grumbles and groans, weakening further. Then, with a final effort, and charging my body up with all the energy I can muster, I thrash hard and the thing gives way, the lock cracking and splintering and
the door swinging open.
I let out a long breath, my head aching from the effort, and send my Hawk-eyes off into the darkness as I step over the threshold. My eyes begin to adapt, but don’t need to work too hard as I turn to the wall and find a light switch.
Pressing my thumb to the little screen, the room blazes, filling with a bright yellow and while glow. I squint at the sudden change, and see a large space coming into view, tall pillars of filing cabinets spreading down one side, with other units and grouped banks of monitors and screens on the other.
All the electronics appear to be dormant, shut off and powered down. I move towards the cabinets, fitted with slim, sleek draws around their four sides and labelled with the information they hold. Within each draw, a single electronic tablet lies, a record of each man and woman, past and present, who has represented the City Guard.
Standing there, I whisper the name of my father.
“Maxwell…”
It’s all I know, other than the fact that he was a Hawk, and had old Dasher blood in him too that never manifested. It’s all Mrs Carmichael could tell me, her knowledge of him kept from her for the very purpose of keeping me safe.
I quickly begin looking down the labelled names, the large cabinet ahead of me listed in alphabetical order. I’m at the first one upon entering the room, the names all beginning with ‘A’. I scan all sides of the pillar, and find that I’m still on the ‘As’ by the time I’m done.
The next pillar is the same. And the next. Hundreds of names beginning with ‘A’. I move down the line, working deeper into the vast network of eight foot pillars that stretch to the ceiling, until I reach the names beginning with ‘M’.
But, there’s a problem. A big problem.
All of these names, listed alphabetically, are surnames.
And I only know my father’s first name.
I stop my brief search, and consider returning to the start. If I check each name, I’ll find him eventually, I reason.
But that will take hours. Many, many hours. Perhaps I’d get lucky and find that his surname began with ‘A’. Perhaps the opposite would be true, and I’d only find him somewhere way down the line.
Or, perhaps I’d find a dozen men with the first name of Maxwell, and have to go a level deeper: check what their enhancements were, see what their records say.
My father, who I only know as Maxwell the Hawk, will have been taken to the REEF for execution once his treachery was discovered. The ‘treachery’ of falling in love with my mother, a Savant, a Mind-Manipulator like me.
An illegal pairing that led to my birth. And Zander’s birth.
And their death.
My mother remains just a face to me. She doesn’t have a name, just a beautiful face with warm brown eyes that make it clear she was never like the rest of her kind. That she was more like Adryan, imbued with the emotion and feeling that other Savants don’t possess, capable of falling in love with my father, of bearing two children that she knew, deep down, she could never have kept.
I stop as my mind works away with thoughts of her, and him. I know what their fate was. Finding my father’s file, and seeing it in electronic print, won’t change that, it won’t help that.
“What am I doing here…” I whisper, shaking my head.
I start to turn, moving back towards the door, resigned to the realisation that I’m just opening up an old wound right now. A wound that’s been sewn shut by this war, by the constant concern for my friends, the fighting, the killing, that’s demanded my full attention.
I don’t need to think of my past again. I don’t need to add that muted pain, that longing, to the very real and fresh grief that now resides constantly inside me.
So I turn, and head straight for the door, before stopping as I reach the threshold.
From nowhere, another name, another curiosity, stamps itself down onto my head. I hover for a second and then turn, moving straight back into the field of filing columns, scanning quickly and carefully for a single name.
My pulse begins to thud as I find it, and open up the drawer. I take out the electronic file and press the little button at the bottom, and the screen begins to glow, set with a name, rank, identification number, and host of other details.
I look at the name with a growing scowl.
Artemis Cromwell.
I flick my finger across the touchscreen from right to left, and the contents page of the file appears. Dates of his ascension through the ranks of the City Guard are listed, his many accomplishment and accolades, all the way up to his time at the summit and his position as Commander.
But it’s not the achievements and ladder climbing of Cromwell that interests me. It’s the little section entitled: “Next of Kin” that demands my focus.
I dab my index finger to the title, and the file begins to load up the appropriate content. I find my pulse lifting, beat-by-beat, as I scan the words that appear before my eyes.
Wife: Cornelia Orlando, it reads.
Enhancement: Savant.
Current Status: Fugitive.
Fate: Taken to the Reconditioning, Examination, and Execution Facility for termination.
Crime: Aiding a fugitive.
Daughter: Elisa, surname given as Munroe.
Enhancement: Savant, Mind-Manipulator.
Current Status: Deceased.
Fate: Taken to the Reconditioning, Examination, and Execution Facility for termination.
Crime: Illegal relationship with Enhanced (Hawk), Illegal procreation.
Fate of Offspring: Unknown.
I stare at the screen, my heart slowing to a sudden crawl. My eyes drift from the details of Lady Orlando to her daughter, Cromwell’s daughter, and don’t go any further.
I fix my gaze on the name, Elisa, and the details, and a terrible realisation forms in my mind. A terrible truth.
Elisa; a Mind-Manipulator, who fell in love with a Hawk, who had illegal children.
A mother, a lover, killed by the doctrines of a father.
A mother…
My mother…
“She was my mother…” I whisper.
And as my words drift into the room, a final thought comes, bringing a horrible grimace to my face. I shut my eyes, ball my fists, and feel sick to my very stomach.
Artemis Cromwell is my grandfather.
THE END
The Enhanced will continue in the next book, Avenger.
Part VIII
AVENGER
198
I sit in silence on level 12, right up against the wall outside the lifts.
The foyer is dim, lit by security lights that emit a soft red glow, the bustle of the world below unable to penetrate this far. It’s quiet, still, peaceful up here on this deserted floor.
But not in my head. Inside, there’s a war raging.
In my hands I hold the electronic tablet that holds the secret to my past. The file of Artemis Cromwell, who climbed to the summit of the city by using the City Guard as a ladder.
The file glows white, still open on the page marked: Next of Kin.
I stare at the details, transfixed and unable to look away, trying to make sense of it all. Trying to find some hidden piece of text that will refute the conclusion that my mind has quickly drawn.
But I can’t. There’s nothing. The truth is plain and clear for me to see.
Artemis Cromwell is my grandfather.
My thumb hovers towards the bottom of the screen, sliding over the circular button to switch it off. Still staring, I press my thumb down and the glow of the white screen gives way to black, the details of my lineage fading away.
I sit for a few more moments, before raising my eyes to the ceiling. Only a few floors up, she awaits. The woman who will give me the answers I need. The woman who has kept me in the dark for so long.
The woman who is no longer just the leader of the Nameless, the old wife of Director Cromwell.
The woman who is now my grandmother too.
I stand on stiff legs, my h
ead still aching from a lack of sleep and the little gash that cuts across the base of my skull. I feel a little disorientated, and pray for a moment that this is nothing but a dream.
It’s not.
It’s real.
I live now in a nightmare that I cannot awake from.
I steady myself against the wall, reaching out with my palm to stop from slipping back to the floor. I suck in a deep breath, and drag my weary limbs towards the lifts to my right. The first one I reach slides open with a hiss. I step inside, and for a moment do nothing but stand there in that little metal box.
Then, from my lips, a croak comes.
“Level 15,” I say.
The doors slide shut immediately, and the elevator rises, passing floors 13 and 14 and reaching 15 before I can take another breath.
The doors part, hissing like a sleepy snake, and a shadowy hall appears before me. I step out, guiding my eyes past the little atrium and down the main corridor ahead. At the end, the old office of the Deputy Commander waits, the frosted glass on the door showing a dull dash of yellow colour beyond.
She’s awake.
I walk forward, the file gripped between my fingers, my chest beating nervously. When I reach the door, I hear nothing but silence within. I reach for the handle, ready to step forward without invitation, but stop.
Before I can, the handle drops down and the door is pulled open. I see the youthful face of Timothy, Lady Orlando’s aid, looking at me.
I look right past him, and see the rebel leader sat in her chair. It’s still early, just past 4.30 AM, but she remains at work, unwilling to sleep for more than a few hours at a time when so much demands her close attention.
“Who is it, Timothy?” I hear her voice come.