by T. C. Edge
“Lady Orlando brought him in,” I say. “You know, with them both being Savants and everything. Think she likes having him around.”
“We have a good working relationship,” says Adryan.
“Well, I can’t blame Cornelia for that,” says, Brenda, flashing a smile. “A handsome man like you. Who wouldn’t want you around. Brie, are you sure your boss’s intentions are pure?”
I shake my head a smile.
“You’ll have to excuse my old guardian,” I say to Adryan. “She’s got a funny way of looking at things.”
Adryan’s cool poise melts into a slightly put-upon laugh. I’m not sure he’s dealt with such humour before.
“Well, why do you think I agreed to come, Mrs Carmichael?” asks Adryan, lifting a cheeky grin. “I may be married to Brie, but that was only ever to get close to Lady Orlando…”
Brenda and Tess’s eyes light up, and so do mine.
“Jeez, was that a joke, Adryan?!” I ask.
“I suppose so,” he says.
“Yeah, and a good one,” laughs Tess.
Brenda chuckles away, widening her eyes as she looks at me.
“Brie, who knew your husband was so bad! I didn’t know your people understood jokes,” she says, looking back at Adryan.
“We don’t, in general,” he says. “But my work involved studying all the people in this city. I’ve picked up one or two things along the way.”
“Well, you’ll fit right in,” says Brenda. “So, are you eating? Care to join us?”
“I’m not sure…” I begin.
“Of course, we’d absolutely love to,” cuts in Adryan. “Shall we?”
He moves straight off, leading us back to the line. And for the next hour or so, we gather our rations, sit in the assigned unit for the residents of the academy, and continue our discussion as it morphs from pithy chitchat to the more profound topics that tend to butt in on any attempt at a regular, stress-free conversation.
Naturally, Brenda and Tess’s main preoccupation is with the burgeoning relationship between Adryan and me. It’s a topic I’d rather avoid, and one I’m not really comfortable discussing in an open forum like this.
My friends clearly note that – they know me well enough to realise when I’m uncomfortable – but fail to steer the conversation away nonetheless. At least, not for some time, until it runs its course and we enter into a grander philosophical debate on the state of the city and the future it holds for his people, their people, and my people; Savants, Unenhanced, and hybrids.
Adryan, of course, has plenty to say on the topic. His entire working life has centred around learning about the people of the city, and his preoccupation has always been in determining how we can all exist together. Naturally, my grandfather didn’t quite agree with those assertions, and took a rather more radical route.
In the end, the summation within our group is simple: that the entire structure of the city, both societally and architecturally speaking, will need to be revamped. That the dividing lines between the Enhanced and Unenhanced, Inner and Outer Haven, will need to be blurred and eventually eliminated.
That we are at the beginning of a revolution that will, in time, see all of our lives change for the better. And that, while some parties will bemoan the adaptations they may have to make, in the end our lives will be more equitable, fair, and prosperous all round.
Truth be told, I don’t participate much in the discussion. It’s the sort of idealised look at things that my inner cynic won’t let me get fully on board with. And, surprisingly, my guardian, always a major sceptic herself, appears to be quite buoyed by it all. Rather taken by Adryan’s rarely seen passion for how Haven, despite all the terrible things that happened, can come out of this mess the better for it.
For my mind, it’s all mute, all just words. Because right now, it’s no good looking forward when the present is so ambiguous. Until a time comes where we can safely look out over the horizon and say: “There’s nothing to threaten us,” then all of this chat is, for me, a waste of time.
And so, rather than sucking the life from the group with my negativity, I keep quiet. I listen, but rarely talk. And all the while, my mind falters and turns to the one man I still want dead, need dead, above all.
The man who, tomorrow, I’ll be standing in front of again.
And when that happens, despite assurances of a peaceful negotiation, I may find those promises hard to keep…
206
I sleep that night with difficulty.
There’s a lot going through my mind.
Despite Adryan’s arrival, Tess maintains her position as my roommate. I guess that’s the natural form of things, seeing as we’ve shared together for years and know each other’s sleeping habits so well.
Adryan, on the other hand, never shared a room, let alone a bed, with me. And yet now, knowing he’s in this building a dozen floors up, I’d rather like him to be here.
My romantic thoughts for him refuse to be contained, and there’s a temptation in me to creep up to level 14 and join him in his room. Half my mind is taken by the desire, keeping me from slipping into my nightmares. The other half remains fixed on what tomorrow will bring, and how I’ll react upon seeing Cromwell again.
I know myself well enough to realise I’m going to be nervous, angry, and hate-filled when I lock eyes with him. I know, too, that in other circumstances I might just do something stupid.
But, with the situation as it is, I have to be smart. I have to be calm. I have to let Lady Orlando do the talking. And if not her, someone like Beckett, or Rycard, or my brother.
Truth be told, I’m well down the list.
So, my mind swings this way and that that night as I attempt to sleep, leading to a dull ache that nibbles from deep inside my skull. The only positive to come from it is that my nightmares can be completely avoided, at least until the exhaustion takes its toll and I eventually slip away.
Then, they assault me as they so enjoy doing, my ability to keep the demons at bay still undeveloped. In time, I know, I’ll learn such skill, but right now it’s open season, my defences out for the count and unable to contain the bombardment.
As with the previous night, I wake in a cold sweat before dawn has arrived, and decide to call it a night. Tess, rather annoyingly, continues to sleep like an angel, her pink lips slightly open and releasing a light tune of soft breathing, her blonde hair swept back beautifully over her head and matching nicely with the slight tan she always appears to have.
I watch her for a moment as I dress, envious of the relative simplicity of her world. For her, right now, there’s nothing to do but help look after the kids and hope that the war doesn’t get any worse. Like most people, she’s been affected by all this conflict but isn’t directly involved.
I’d prefer that, personally. But, no, not for me. Instead, my brother is one of the most powerful warriors in the city, my grandmother is the leader of the rebel cause, and my grandfather is the very reason this war is happening in the first place.
I’ve killed dozens of people, seen friends die, and have done and seen things that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Well, unless it’s the aforementioned grandfather, that is.
Really, it’s a life I never signed up for and yet one I cannot avoid. And today, the next stage in this war might just be decided.
That thought occupies me all morning, as it does everyone else. By the time the city rises to another misty day, it’s clear that the knowledge of the negotiation talks have spread to all corners.
Consequently, the fighting across the city, though now limited to small, sporadic skirmishes, has now completely subsided. It’s some proof that Cromwell wishes to treat for peace, his orders having been heard and taken on board by his men, and all those loyal to him now standing down for the time being.
As the morning passes by, it affords us an opportunity to continue to gather any civilians wishing to cross over towards Inner Haven. With the threat of Cromwell’s agents put on hia
tus, they start to creep from their homes once more, helped along by our many soldiers who spread through the western and southern quarters, providing safe passage.
More than just seeing their fellow Outer Haveners flock to safety, the sight of the fresh influx of refugees helps to give the people some hope and assurance that Cromwell is serious about agreeing a long-term peace. That the people have clearly spoken, and that there really is no option for him now but to accept his failure and make the best he can out of it.
Yet, for me, I’m torn over such a way of thinking.
Yes, I’d love for this city to have seen the last of the fighting. Yes, I’d love for the process of rebuilding to begin. Yes, I’d love for our revolution to have been successful, and for the people to come together as one.
That would be best for everyone.
But, what of my grandfather? What of my desire for revenge? If he agrees to terms, what will those terms be?
I muse on such thoughts, festering and stewing on the secrets that exist in my mind, as the morning shifts along and the sun rises to its summit in the sky, barely visible through the blanket of grey sludge that covers the heavens.
Then, with the ceasefire in effect all across the city, we gather our forces and move towards the western wall, driving in a convoy unlike any I’ve ever seen.
Dozens of cars and vans link in a chain, carrying over a hundred specialised hybrids and defector City Guards, working through the devastated streets as we craft a path right for the western perimeter wall.
When we reach it, our men get into the positions they’ve been assigned. Hawks on the summit of the wall and on nearby rooftops, checking to make sure no trap is sprung. Sniffers and Bats doing the same, using their super senses to alert us to any incoming threat. Dashers and Brutes providing a small but well trained fighting force should we come to blows. Our own hybrids, the elite soldiers among us, ready to go toe to toe with Cromwell’s Stalkers should the need arise.
All of them have their assignments, and all are ready to roll.
And then there’s us, the negotiation team, the united front that Lady Orlando wishes to display. Herself and Beckett, Freya and Rycard, my brother and me; a medley of men and women, old and young, a vision of what the future of this world could, and should, look like.
We stand on the inside of the gate, one I’ve passed through once before when being transported from the High Tower to the REEF. That, of course, was right after my previous rendezvous with Cromwell, who has since taken on a different, more personal, meaning for me.
With the signal given from above, it begins to slide open, revealing the dark green and brown hues of the outerlands, either side of the grey tarmac track that leads off through the woods. The toxic mist hovers at the edges of the trees, sneaking its tendrils out into the open, enough to cause a caustic burning in the nose and the back of the throat, but little more than that.
Still, a few of the more sensitive among our troop wear lightweight masks to shield them from the fog, although none of the negotiating party take up the option. The thinking is simple: we want Cromwell to see us. We don’t want to hide behind our masks.
We step out, crossing the threshold of the city, from the gate and surrounding walls once held by his men. Now, it’s us who control the territory, his soldiers either having jumped ship to our side or obeying the order to maintain a ceasefire. No doubt they linger somewhere not too far away, ready, should they be ordered to, to engage and protect their master.
It baffles me, really, how any of the remaining City Guards can still remain loyal to him. Some, I suppose, have become so entrenched in the awful doctrines he’s expounded over the years that they will never betray him. His propaganda, masterfully manipulating the masses, has helped to ensure that many still side with him, even if they haven’t been reconditioned.
Those that have, of course, will have no choice but to obey. His Stalkers and Con-Cops, and any other agents who have ever visited the REEF or his new reconditioning facility, will be aligned to his wishes and those alone.
What he says, they do. No matter what.
The sky retains its swamp of dark grey cloud as we step through the gate and into the wide opening beyond it. Accompanied by an elite unit of guards, including Marler and several other skilled and experienced hybrids, we gather at the appointed meeting spot, the air damp with the threat of incoming rain.
Lady Orlando stands in the centre, marginally ahead of the rest of us, who fan out right and left and send our eyes down the wide path through the trees. Not too far ahead, the earth undulates just a little, enough to drop the road out of sight and conceal the view of any incoming cars.
At least, to us on the ground.
Up above us, perched on their walls, the calls come that a convoy approaches. A moment later, I hear the rumbling engines, and the first vehicle comes into view, followed by a short stream of others.
It’s a smaller force by the looks of things, yet a formidable one. About a hundred metres away, the first three cars pull up next to one another, and the doors open up. The black-cloaked Stalkers pour out, four from each car, setting up a protective cordon ahead as they line up on the road.
They begin marching, a dozen of them, as more vehicles begin to come into view behind. More of them come, a dozen more, two dozen more, perhaps fifty swarming into the nearby patch of earth that sits between the city walls and the forest behind.
All dress the same. All are elite.
I scan them and quickly compute that, should they wish to attack, they’ll overwhelm us. They have perhaps half our numbers, but many times our value. In a matter of quality verses quantity, they win hands down.
A nervous ripple runs through me. I look to my right, where my brother stands. He catches eyes with me and gives me a reassuring nod.
I hear his voice in my head.
Keep cool, sister, he says. This is a peaceful negotiation…
I look to the others too. They seem to share my brother’s sharp gaze and undaunted expression. All seem to trust that our enemy will adhere to the peaceful promise of this parley.
Again, my inner cynic can’t help but yell at me from the inside. I ignore her and turn my eyes back, just as a larger van appears. It slides to a stop, barely visible behind the forward batch of a dozen Stalkers at the front, and the many others now taking up position on the right and left flanks.
I watch the van carefully, and see the back open up. I see several figures step out, and amid the dark greens and browns, and the grey clouds above, the white stands out so clear.
They come forward, several men and women, ranging from middle-aged to elderly, moving right behind the Stalkers who protect them. I count seven of them, and immediately know, before they even get close, just who they all are.
Half the Consortium, five dressed in white, and one in a dark grey jumpsuit to signify his position as a captive. I look to the latter, and see an emptiness written across his face. It’s clear that Commander Leyton Burns has suffered some ill treatment.
The light grey suit, however, belongs to another: Agent Woolf, lifting a snarky, self-satisfied smile, approaches alongside Burns, walking at the flank of the group of dead-eyed Savants.
And in their centre, I see him.
He steps forward as the Stalkers part, moving aside with their weapons at the ready, creating a short tunnel through which he walks.
He comes, walking calmly, moving in like a terrible reflection of the woman he comes face to face with. The leader of two factions, once husband and wife, who share such a troubled and upsetting history.
He surveys the group so briefly as he approaches, his eyes flicking subtly along the line to see who we’ve brought to the party. Then, as he nears, his gaze fixes to his ex-wife, and her alone. And through my peripheral vision, I see that she’s doing just the same.
And stopping in the dirt, half a dozen metres away, a supreme silence falls, and within that silence, his smooth voice swarms through the air.
“
Good afternoon, Cornelia,” he says. “It’s such a pleasure to see you again, after all these long years…”
207
Cromwell’s words hang in the air for a few long moments.
Lady Orlando doesn’t react, or answer, or give anything away except for the utter, all consuming loathing she holds for the man. It comes out through her eyes, her glare, written with a thousand awful memories of the man who once shared her life, and shared her bed.
I scan the Director, my grandfather, with a similar ire. Dressed in his white suit, he appears slightly different to when I last saw him. The pristine purity of his cloth has given way to a slight discolouration. His face, a strange mix of old and young, now leans heavily on the former, those seemingly clean and unwrinkled cheeks of his showing their age.
Life beyond the High Tower, it seems, doesn’t suit the man.
And the same goes for his companions, his fellow members of the Consortium. Their clothing is showing several days worth of wear, marked with dust and soot, and their faces crinkle with lines of displeasure at being reduced to what they now are: exiles from their own city.
The starkest change, however, is in the former Commander of the City Guard, Leyton Burns, now clearly discovered to be a traitor and dressed appropriately to display his criminal status. His posture appears a little bent-over, his eyes bloodshot and heavy, as if he’s been denied sleep and, perhaps, drugged or tortured during his time in the REEF.
As my eyes turn from one to the next, filled with hate and anger, they only fade to pity and sorrow at the sight of the man who, had I not failed at my original mission, would probably be Director himself right now.
And none of this would be necessary.
The thought brings the final companion of Cromwell under my gaze: Agent Romelia Woolf. A woman of such supreme mental gifts that she has regularly destroyed our plans, first saving her master from my assassination attempt, and then seemingly alerting him of the imminent topping of the High Tower and giving him a chance to get away.