by T. C. Edge
But not here, and not today.
I don’t have to think before acting. As the van skids to a glacially slow stop, I’m already opening the door and darting from the van, swinging up my pistol, dashing towards the little grouping of killers at a pace they cannot possibly see or contend with.
I skid along the turf, kicking up a trail of dust behind me, peppering my enemy with a barrage of bullets that cut quickly through flesh and bone. There are eight of them, their guns swinging to me, filling the air before me with a hundred hungry rounds.
I have my wits about me, and know that the van lies just down the street. I surge to one side, drawing their fire away from it, quickly ending the lives of three of their number before Kira can even join in.
Then she does, and together we act just as Zander and I did, firing and displacing and destroying the physical remains of these people who no longer have souls. We cut them down like lightning, my pistol running dry with a couple remaining, the poor final two suffering the indignity of being blown clean in half by my pulse rifle as I swing it from my back.
But they don’t care. They don’t feel. Not fear or pain or anything else.
And right now, nor do I. The process of killing, of administering death, has become second nature to me now. With my friends behind, and innocent people being so needlessly gunned down, I don’t have the luxury of caring.
I take lives to save lives.
That is what I do.
And when the eight men and women are lying dead in the dirt, Kira and I return straight to the van and step back inside. Abby looks up at me with eyes as big as dinner plates, the sheer wonder on her face growing exponentially.
“Queen-Brie..,” she whispers, staring, the fantastical stories of her comics coming to life..
I smile, wink, and then guide my eyes back ahead.
And the van just keeps on rumbling.
17
As the van moves on up the road, our eyes wash over the civilians caught out by the Con-Cops. It looked for all the world like all were dead, but my Hawk-eyes pick out some movement, and Kira, with her far more powerful senses, pricks up her ears and notes that a heart is still beating.
She stops the van immediately before I can suggest it, and just as we step out, the rear of the van opens up as the Brutes clamber out too. Losing their weight, the van rocks and rolls for a moment, swaying wildly before steadying like a boat caught in a sudden storm.
It’s in the Brute’s veins to help people in need. And it seems to be in mine too. Without hesitation, they lunge in and start checking for pulses and breathing. Kira, with a blend of powers they can’t have even seen before, informs them that there’s only one survivor.
The woman in question, dark haired and middle-aged, is quickly scooped up as gently as the big men can manage, Titus doing the honours and quickly taking her back to the van. It’s getting overcrowded, so Magnus suggests the two giants stay on the streets and help, should they need to, to keep any fleeing people safe.
We agree that it’s the best course of action, not least because their weight is also slowing us down so much, and hit the gas immediately, speeding now far faster towards the southern gate.
Mrs Carmichael, given her extensive experience in patching up scrapes and burns and semi-major cuts, does what she can with what she’s got in the back. Yet a handful of bullet wounds to the body is more than she can realistically deal with, her job merely to halt the flow of blood using the medical provisions available.
Sitting up front, Abby now watches through the hatch window to the rear with a grim look on her face, the wonder gone and her fingers still gripping tightly at her pink pack. I do the same, the flow of blood from the woman’s body oozing into the metal cracks on the floor, forcing the kids to bend their legs and raise their feet to avoid it.
Speeding fast, we reach the southern gate in no time at all, Kira swerving down the shortest and safest routes, the van hurtling for the gate as one of our guards steps through the side door on the right.
I lean out of the window and wave and shout for them to open up, hoping it’s a Hawk on duty who might just recognise me. If they don’t, they sure do recognise the van, the guards at the western gate doing as Kira ordered and informing them that we may return this way.
Without needing to slow, the gate opens before we arrive, and the large trucks beyond pull away too to present us quick passage onto the outer spiral.
Far from the slow, leisurely tour I had when I first ventured here, the first-timers see only the cold empty streets rushing by in a blur. Yet most remain more interested in the poor woman slowly dying at their feet, a whole mess of hands now pressing down to stem the flow of crimson as it seeps from the holes in her flesh.
Winding down the outer spiral, we curl inwards down side-roads, making straight for the centre. In the City Guard HQ, proper medics and facilities are on hand, this rush to save a single life, a woman none of us have ever met, saying so much about the difference between us and those who cut her down.
In a panicking rush, we finally curve for the final time and speed straight down the central road on which the HQ sits. We can go only so far, the rubble from the High Tower spilling way off the platform and blocking much of the road, so are forced to screech to a stop a good fifty metres from the front door.
Our entrance doesn’t go unnoticed. Efficient as always, our men at the southern gate have called it in, and a medical team appear, running with a stretcher in hand and ready to get to work.
When I step out, it becomes immediately clear that yet more Savants have been recruited to our cause, two of the doctors carrying the flat demeanour that only they portray.
It’s odd, really, to think that these emotionless people will so willingly jump ship over to our side, happy enough to just follow orders from someone else now that their master has tucked tail and run.
But then again, come to think of it, it’s not weird at all. Savants are like sheep to a shepherd, smarter than the rest of us and yet unable to think for themselves. It’s a strange and cruel irony, really.
Their cool heads are, however, well suited to this sort of work, and so they, along with a couple of orderlies, quickly take the dying woman off our hands and rush her away to be seen to.
And, finally, we all breathe.
The kids clamber out of the van, some still huddling together for safety, others gazing around at the strange, alien streets.
Mostly, people coming to this part of the city would only be looking at one thing, finally venturing close enough to gaze right up at the High Tower, from base to tip. Now, it’s to the building’s remains that all eyes are drawn, even now still smoking at certain spots, a whirling cloud of dust constantly hovering above it like a dark cloud.
“Brie…where’s the High Tower?” asks Abby, at my side once more and tugging at my shirt.
Clearly, she didn’t see it come down. I wonder if any of them did, hidden away in that concert hall.
I catch eyes with Mrs Carmichael and she shakes her head.
“It’s gone, Abby,” is all I say.
The core of the city isn’t how we left it this morning. Now, with the afternoon drifting quickly by, and the sun beginning to trundle off towards the horizon, I see a sea of people peppering the huge, vast platform ahead, dispersed among the debris.
Already, a massive operation is underway, and much of the population of Inner Haven, it seems, have come to help out. Digging through the rubble, survivors are being sought out, and the many, many remains of the dead taken to be identified and cremated.
It’s a horrible job, but one that needs to be done. Many, it would seem, have come willingly, both the Unenhanced living here, and the regular Enhanced too, all of them banding together at this time of need.
Among it all, I see large machines as well, rumbling loudly with the guttural roars of their mighty engines. In areas cleared of the remains of the dead, they work to gather up huge piles of stone and brick and metal, some using giant sweepe
rs, and others massive, robotic arms to clear the streets.
It’s all being overseen by a few of our people, keen perhaps to ensure that the evidence of what we’ve done is quickly swept away.
But really, this is more about a search for survivors. A public show of compassion as the city comes together to ensure that anyone trapped in the tangled mess get out of there alive.
Looking upon it, I can’t imagine that there’s anyone with a heartbeat in there.
“Come along now,” calls out Mrs Carmichael, herding the kids back into a more manageable group as they begin to wander and stray off course. “Let’s, um, get you somewhere safe.”
She clearly doesn’t know where that somewhere is. While trying to stay in control, it’s obvious that my old guardian is just as mesmerised by this place as the rest.
With Abby alongside me, I return to the group, moving up alongside Tess whose eyes have refused to budge from the ruins since we arrived.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it,” she murmurs. “It was only, what, months ago, less, that we were there on the platform for the ceremony.”
I nod silently, picturing the scene once more.
Tess seems to be doing the same.
“Do you remember how uptight Sophie was?” she asks, smiling at the memory. “She was all about the etiquette…hardly seems to matter now. Do you know if she’s…alive?”
I forget how little Tess must know about all this. How much I’ve been through that she hasn’t been a part of.
“She’s fine,” I say, hoping that’s the case but, in reality, not truly knowing. “She’s way outside the city, in some old mines. I helped get some of our people there to safety. Oh, and Drum’s there too.”
She rounds on me.
“Drum! He’s OK?!”
“He was when I left him,” I say.
A long blow of air is pressed from her lungs, battling from between partially open lips.
“I’ve missed a lot, huh,” she puffs. “And um, sorry for…you know…trying to kill you.”
Her eyes dip shamefully, and Abby looks up at her in shock and surprise.
I look down at the little girl.
“No, she doesn’t mean it, Abs,” I say. “She didn’t try to kill me.”
“Well,” shrugs Tess, cradling her abdomen and the padded dressing beneath her shirt. “I’ve got the scars to prove it.”
“Tess, it wasn’t you, or Brenda. You had no choice in the matter. I’d hoped you wouldn’t remember.”
“I remember enough,” she says. “Comes in flashes, you know…”
“Well, I can take care of that if you want.”
“Yeah, I guess you can. Show off…” She looks at me with a smirk. It’s not like the rest, gazing at me in wonder. No, not Tess. She’s my best friend, and doesn’t get impressed by such things. I’m delighted to see that she’ll treat me just the same as ever.
Abby, on the other hand, seems quite unable to look elsewhere but me right now. All with that slack jawed gape that marks me out as very different to the rest.
When Kira comes jogging over – it seems she returned to the HQ briefly and has gathered up a couple of administrators – Abby now looks at her in much the same manner. Her appearance alone is enough to garner such interest, what with those dazzling green eyes and wild red hair. Add some rather fantastical abilities to the mix and you’ve got yourself an attention-seeking winner.
“Right, everyone,” she says, commanding all our attention. “We’re going to get you housed, OK. This way.”
We follow her and the two tablet-wielding admins towards a building a little way up the street, marching in the opposite direction from the City Guard HQ and right towards a building I’m quite familiar with – Compton’s Hall.
Moving past the pillars outside and into the reception hall, I find a whole stream of mattresses and beds being ferried into the main hall itself. Tess’s eyes wander about, and I nudge her in the side, a little too close to her stab-wound for comfort.
She grunts. I apologise, and then say: “You always wanted to go to a bachelor ball, right?” with a grin.
“Here? This is where they take place?” she asks.
“Yep, right here in this big dull building.”
Right now, however, it’s anything but dull. Instead of the bland open space, it’s filled with beds and food and water stations, very distinct areas set up for little groups just like ours. There’s not much privacy, but then again that’s hardly a priority right now.
“OK, here we are,” says Kira. “It’s just temporary for now, while we get thing sorted.”
I suspect it’s a lot easier to manage the people if they’re all bunched together. And, should any attack come, they’ll be easier to protect too.
“I’m going to hand you over to these lovely ladies right now,” she continues, looking at the admins. “They’ll get you all set up and cosy. I’d like to grab your guardian, though, if I may. Mrs Carmichael, would you step over here?”
Kira works her way off to one side. Mrs Carmichael smiles comfortingly to the kids and follows. They remain in earshot, even over the din of the hall and all its activity. Clearly, this isn’t some clandestine meeting.
“Lady Orlando would love to meet you, Mrs Carmichael,” Kira tells her. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you right to her.”
My guardian nods and looks to the kids once more.
“Go with the nice ladies,” she says, “they’ll get you set up. Tess, look after them, I’ll be back soon.”
Tess nods and begins moving off with the kids and carers. I stay in place for a moment, before Kira beckons me over.
“You too, Brie. Come on, let’s go.”
We move back out of the hall and down the street towards the City Guard HQ. All the while, Mrs Carmichael continues to take things in, ogling every inch of space in her own way, half scowling at the emptiness and clean ugliness of it all, and half entranced by somewhere she’s so often heard about, but never set foot.
Always a cynic, she’s spent her life refusing to be impressed by just about anything at all. I can see she’s trying hard to continue that trend, and failing miserably.
The walk is long enough – only about a minute or two, and that’s plenty long for her – to draw a cigarette from her pocket and light up. By the time we reach the threshold to the HQ she’s still puffing away. It looks like the sort of place that would be termed ‘non-smoking’, but no one seems to care.
We enter, the cigarette still dangling from her lips, and move straight for the lifts. Gliding to the summit of the building, our next port of call finds us outside the Deputy Commander’s door, his name and title now hastily scrubbed away.
Kira knocks, and we’re called in.
And Lady Orlando awaits.
18
Even for Mrs Carmichael, never daunted by anyone, the sight of the leader of the rebels has an impact. Quickly, she snatches the decaying cigarette from her lips and searches for somewhere to snub it out. Lady Orlando merely shakes her head and says: “Please, Mrs Carmichael, feel free to finish it.”
“Yes, if you’re sure, Lady Orlando,” murmurs my guardian with a rare nervousness.
Another quick couple of puffs and it’s done. Kira steps over, takes the cigarette off her, and tosses it out of the room into the corridor. Mrs Carmichael seems surprised by the littering in such a pristine place.
Lady Orlando smiles.
“I’ve lived for many years in an old, derelict church, Mrs Carmichael,” she says. “All this cleanliness is quite unattractive to me.”
That said, I’m sure it’ll be swept up later.
Other than the rebel leader, there’s some young helper boy in the room, standing rigidly off to one side of the desk. His eyes suggest Savant. Another for the cause.
“Timothy, you can leave us,” Lady Orlando says to him.
The boy, perhaps my age, shuffles off and out of the room. By the looks of his shadow through the frosted glass, he’s already se
eing to the removal of that cigarette.
Lady Orlando now stands for the first time from behind her desk, the room already growing more cluttered with files and box units, if only to give the place some life. To the side, I also notice a large camera unit set up, the very same one that just beamed her image right across the city.
She moves around her desk, dressed again in some measure of maroon finery that looks quite out of place in a war. It’s another way for her to show that she’s hardly a Savant at all, the warm colours and embroidery quite the statement against her upbringing.
“Mrs Carmichael,” she starts, “let me introduce myself formally. My name is Cornelia Orlando, but please do call me Cornelia. Your work with the children is an inspiration to so many. I am proud to have you here, and so very grateful for raising Brie into such a fine young woman.”
Mrs Carmichael, never lost for words, has at least misplaced a few. She gulps, somewhat awed by this great woman, before stepping forward and taking her outstretched hand.
The two old ladies greet before me, and a smile canters up my face. Cornelia and Brenda, the former a little thinner and taller, the latter a pinch shorter and rounder – although less so than she once was – could quite easily be old friends from many moons ago.
If nothing else, they have two things in common: me, and a fondness for whiskey. I can just picture them now, hammering away at a bottle and sharing old tales. I dearly love the thought.
“Lady Orlando – sorry, Cornelia – it really is my pleasure to meet you. Do call me Brenda. I, um, thought your speech was fantastic, by the way.”
“Oh, you did? Well, thank you. I’m delighted you saw it. I can only hope the rest of the city share your view.”
“Oh, they will,” Brenda says. “I’ve been something of a critic all my life, but you won me over. I know this city, Cornelia. Above all, the people want to live free.”
“I do hope so,” smiles Lady Orlando.
I must say, I find it surprising that she allows my guardian to use her first name. No one else I know calls her that, not even the older mages who advise her. At least, not to my knowledge anyway.