by T. C. Edge
I wait for a confirmative grunt before turning to the opposite wall, setting the glowstick down on the bed. It casts a soft light onto the bland wallpaper, bare brick showing in places where its cracked and torn.
But it’s not the wall I’m looking at.
My eyes stare at two faces as I lie there, themselves worn down and fading now. My mother, warm brunette locks tied into a bun, holding me tenderly in her arms. My father, a strong arm curling around my mother’s shoulder, his hazel eyes, just like mine, staring down at me.
It’s a picture I’ve looked at every night since I can remember, my day somehow incomplete until I’ve inspected the image that seems so alien, so disconnected from my real world.
I often wonder how they could have left me behind, seeing the affection and love in their eyes as they look at me. And then I look a little closer, and note the pain there too, the undercurrent of heartbreak that hovers in their expressions.
And I realise that what they did, they did for a reason. And that, most likely, I’ll never find out what it was.
2
My alarm begins blaring half an hour before dawn, ruthlessly dragging me out of a deep sleep.
An ingrained habit has me leaping straight out of bed, the chill of the morning creeping up my spine as I quickly jump back into my utility clothes; bland grey trousers and jacket, with an old t-shirt and jumper underneath for warmth, coupled with sturdy work boots that are less than flattering to a girl of 18.
As I dress, I call out for Tess to get up. Clearly, my alarm isn’t enough for her.
“Tess, come on, rise and shine,” I say, darting over to shake her awake.
When she refuses to budge for even a moment, I swiftly drag off her blanket and let the cool morning air sweep over her. Her eyes crack open and glare at me.
“I hate you,” she mutters, before slowly standing to her feet.
“Love you too,” comes my bright response, my hands busily tying my brown locks into a ponytail before brushing my teeth.
Tess follows me to the basin, wearily freshening her breath before we hastily wolf down a couple of protein rich breakfast bars. They’re bland and functional, supplying us with all the necessary energy we’ll need to see through a hard morning’s work.
Within 3 minutes of my frankly deafening alarm, we’re up and ready to go, fully clothed and with our workbags tightly wrapped around our backs.
Together, we sweep down through the building towards the ground floor, everyone else still fast asleep. The same is largely true when we exit into the morning air, the sky still dark and the streets covered with an unpleasant mist.
There are few people on the streets, but their absence is made up for by the many drones hovering across the sky, their lights shining within the mist as they hurtle here and there. Most are postal drones, delivering goods and parcels before the world awakes. Others, however, are sentries, keeping an eye on us for their masters at the centre of Inner Haven.
Before hurrying into the mist, we set our sights a little way down the street at a large glowing post that sticks about 10 feet out of the ground. Currently, it’s a fairly bright shade of green, indicating that the current fog isn’t toxic. When that green turns to yellow, and then red, you know that it’s time to get inside.
We move off down the street, heading south towards Culture Corner. When we arrive at a soon-to-be-thriving midsection, we climb onto the Conveyor Line, a simple tram-like transport system that connects the major districts and streets around Outer Haven.
Unlike a tram, you don’t get to sit down, but merely stand on the conveyor belt and cling onto a pole in front of you as it slides along its tracks. It’s not overly fast, but helps you get about much quicker than you would on foot. Using it when tired or intoxicated, however, isn’t the best idea. Slipping off at its admittedly low top speed can still cause all manner of physical harm.
Bearing that in mind, I make sure to take the spot behind Tess, weary as she still appears to be. Standing right behind her, I keep a close eye to ensure that she stays steady as the conveyor belt takes us southwards along the central connective street between the west and south quarters.
As we go, the mist begins to clear a little, and the various billboards and advertising displays that dominate the sides of buildings start to spring into life, drenching the world in a multi-coloured neon glow.
To the left, my gaze is drawn to the tall, soaring tower that monopolises the skyline, overshadowing all other structures across the city. Standing up well over a hundred storeys, and circular in shape, the High Tower is the central core of the city, right at the heart of Inner Haven. Up at its glass domed summit, the Consortium, the rulers of the city, cast their eyes down on us from their lofty perch.
Surrounding the High Tower, other grand buildings spread, sleek and modern and well appointed as far as I can gather - not that I’ve ever seen them up close. They’re all enclosed by a solid metal wall that acts as the boundary between the two parts of the city: Inner and Outer Haven.
Few from Outer Haven ever cross that threshold, our value not deemed high enough to merit doing so. As far as they see it, they’re genetically superior to us, and I suppose that’s factually correct. To them, we’re merely a function of their society, a necessary part of the well-oiled machine that they operate.
We’re well cared for, and given certain freedoms, and in exchange are expected to play along and stay civil. As far as I see it, the relationship is like that of a man and his dog. The man will treat his dog well, but if it steps out of line, and tries to bite him, he might just put it down.
That is the fine line we all walk down here, looked down on by the members of the ‘Enhanced’ above us, those with genetically superior traits and abilities. And even within their ranks, there are obvious divisions, those with super intellect rising to the highest class of the Court, and the best amongst those joining the ruling party of the Consortium.
Around here, the mind is everything.
I continue to stare at the High Tower for as long as it stays in view, growing ever clearer as the morning mist fades. By the time we enter the southern quarter, however, some of the taller buildings of Outer Haven serve to block my view.
Down here, the more decadent members of our own class, colloquially known as the ‘Unenhanced’, tend to live and congregate. Even among our bustling population, social and class divides are obvious.
Here, you have restaurants and marketplaces, art installations and theatre performances. On the other side of Outer Haven, however, in the northern quarter, the Disposables dwell, hidden in their alleys, creeping out at night to pillage and steal.
I suppose I’m somewhere in the middle of that system, occupying the centre ground of our class of Unenhanced. Not quite the bottom rung of the social ladder, but pretty close to it.
Soon enough, the sky is changing colour and the sun is beginning to rise, bringing the warming hues of dawn with it. More people begin to emerge too, spreading out from buildings to get on with their days. As the Conveyor Line slows at certain stops along its path, people step on, taking hold of poles before they’re whisked away on their onward journeys.
Before long, it’s time for Tess and me to step off. Around us, the vibrant streets of Culture Corner spread, the central hub of art and music in the city. All over, beautiful murals have been painted on walls, and strange sculptures erected from the earth, littered across a wide-open square.
Theatres dot the area too, along with open-air areas used for live performances that are commonly free for the public. It’s a whole mess of colour and vibrancy, musicians singing and filling the air with fine music, entertainers busking for change around every nook and cranny.
Yet there’s nowhere in the city that’s more closely watched either.
Sentry drones hover, and fixed cameras lie hidden in the walls. Those from on high maintain a constant, vigilant eye on the area, making sure that the freedom of expression they continue to grant us doesn’t go too far.
Some members of the Enhanced even linger here, sent from Inner Haven to keep a more direct watch. Among them are Brutes, those with superior physical strength, who tend to act as guards and rangers. Hawks, too, creep around among us, their eyesight as sharp as the birds of prey they’re locally named after.
Occasionally, the highest class of the Enhanced, Savants, may even find themselves down here, sent on some public relations mission or to try to help decipher a particularly dastardly crime. Savants, you see, are those blessed with superior intellect, and are the ones who make up the Court. And from their most gifted members, the Consortium is chosen.
As I step into the centre of the main square, I search for the vandalism that has drawn us here today. Immediately, the dull black and white writing appears, covering a large and beautifully painted mural depicting mountains and rivers and verdant woods, things that now lie within the toxic wasteland beyond our borders.
The large words, written in block print, merely read:
ART IS EVIL. EMOTION IS EVIL.
GIVE IN TO LOGIC.
To my side, Tess mutters and shakes her head, looking upon the graffiti.
“Fanatics,” she mumbles.
I share the sentiment.
One of the natural side-effects of the Savants’ supreme intellect is their lacking emotions and devotion to logic. All members of the Court suffer from the same affliction, and that is precisely why it is the Savants who are considered highest among all the Enhanced. The rest – Brutes and Hawks and Dashers, recognised for their astonishing speed – aren’t quite so cold and callous in their thinking, yet fall in line just like everyone else. Only, they get to live in Inner Haven, rather than down here with the rest of us.
What’s ironic about these Fanatics, however, is that they’re not Savants at all.
They’re Unenhanced, normal members of the population of Outer Haven, doing regular jobs and propping up those above us just like everyone else.
Yet, during their spare time, they don their black masks and come down here, defacing wonderful pieces of art with their stupid, boring block letters. And that’s all despite the fact that the Consortium itself allows us the freedom to express our emotions.
As long as we don’t cross the line, that is…
I let out a long, drawn out sigh and shake my head at the irony of it all. Beside the mural, a little collection of people have gathered, all of them looking at the graffiti with a deep measure of displeasure.
We hurry over to join them, and their eyes drop to us.
“Ah, you must be the cleaners,” says one man. He looks like a local member of the Council of the Unenhanced, dressed in a rather drab grey suit. I suppose, among our class, they’re the highest members, and see to the general day-to-day running of Outer Haven.
“That’s us,” I say, swinging my bag off my back. “I guess we’ll get started?”
I’m rather eager to get this done.
“Um, yes please. If you could remove the graffiti without disturbing the art, we’d all be very grateful. Particularly Humphrey.”
My eyes switch to the man to his left, a more colourful character with long brown hair, a pointed chin, and a silly little moustache. His eyes plead with me before his words even come out.
“Please, can you?” he asks in a soft, upset voice.
“Erm, we’ll try,” says Tess flatly. “But…don’t get your hopes up.”
I chuckle a little inside at Tess’s forward manner. If I didn’t know it, I’d guess she had some Savant blood in her herself, given how tactless and unemotional she can be sometimes.
“Well, do your best,” says the councilman again. “We have performances across the square later, so we’d love it if you could do a swift job.”
“Sure, no problem,” I say, before Tess can dish out another one of her barbs.
As they wander off, the artist’s eyes dolefully looking upon his tarnished work, Tess raises her eyebrows to me.
“That painting’s a goner and you know it,” she says. “There’s no point in lying to him.”
I shrug and open up my bag, scooping out the various tools we’ll need for the job. She’s right, that’s for sure.
Beautiful as it is, this mural’s had its day.
We set to work, starting out by scrubbing lightly in a bid to remove the graffiti without completely destroying the art beneath it. When that proves fruitless, we give up the pretence and put a bit more elbow grease into it, the letters only coming off along with the woods and mountains and blue rivers they cover.
“Ah well,” says Tess dispassionately, looking upon the mess. “We tried…”
I’m well aware that she has little interest in art and music anyway. Sometimes, when you witness your parents being killed right in front of your eyes, it’s hard to take pleasure in much of anything.
Across the square, the artist spends the first hour or two hovering around, yelping any time we finish up on a particular letter, leaving his masterpiece scrambled behind. Soon enough, he disappears entirely, tears spreading down his face as he’s led away by a couple of consoling friends.
Clearly, he can’t stomach watching his work be scrubbed away so ruthlessly.
Then again, that was his job, and this is ours. Our remit was to remove the graffiti, no quarter given to what it was covering. The order will likely have come from our own council, without the input of the Court. Frankly, why should they care if such a statement is emblazed across the mural of a landscape?
At the end of the day, the words are exactly what they believe. Well, almost. I mean, they wouldn’t necessarily call art and emotion ‘evil’ per se, but they’d certainly agree that is has no tangible impact on the functioning of their society.
The Fanatics are aware of this, and clearly agree with it. For them, and the divine ‘super-beings’ they worship, logic trumps emotion when attempting to rebuild a prosperous civilisation.
And rebuild is certainly the word.
The square begins to fill as lunchtime approaches, workers spreading from nearby buildings and offices and warehouses to get a little dose of culture before their days resume. They congregate here from far and wide, the Conveyor Line fit to bursting as it brings in wave after wave of Unenhanced.
Our job still to be completed, we soldier on, and become something of an attraction ourselves. I can hear people whispering around us, trying to figure out what the graffiti would have said with only a few letters still remaining. The brighter among them are quick to work it out.
Frankly, it hardly takes a Savant to do so.
By the time the job is completed, the square is just starting to clear again, the worker bees all called back to their hives. As we pack away our things and prepare to return to the academy, the councilman wanders back over, perusing our work as he comes.
“Good job,” he says. “I knew you’d never be able to save the art underneath. Poor old Humphrey, he worked on that piece for weeks. But, needs must I suppose.” He digs into his pocket and draws out an envelope. “Payment for your work. Send my regards to Mrs Carmichael.”
He wanders off, disappearing into the fading crowd. As he does so, I feel my eye drawn to a black mass spreading from one of its far corners. Four figures, all huddled closely together, begin rushing through towards the centre of the square, all of them dressed entirely in black. They move at such a pace, and so tightly knit together, that they draw many eyes, people stopping and watching as they go.
“What’s going on?” asks Tess, following my gaze. “Another stupid performance no doubt…”
I suspect she’s right.
The figures continue to come, moving as centrally as they can and drawing along a wave of onlookers in their wake. Anything unusual around here tends to catch the public’s attention, the crowd hungrily gobbling up this sort of random performance art.
Personally, it’s not usually to my taste, but there’s something intriguing about these four. Something that captures my attention as I stand rooted to the
spot, watching as they stop in the centre of the square amid the statues and monuments and little audiences that congregate around other entertainers.
Then, suddenly, they spread out, their paths diverging.
Each moves off in an opposite direction, spreading into a wide square, the crowd stepping back to allow them free movement. Behind them, they appear to be dragging something, a transparent sheet, stretching it out across the concrete.
With no warning at all, the four figures stop, and the sheet crackles and flashes, fizzing on the surface of the ground as it sparks into a rhythmic blaze of colourful fire. The people whoop and clap, watching the pretty display.
But something inside me calls out a warning.
This doesn’t feel right at all.
The fire crackles for a brief few seconds, and the sheet disappears. As it does so, black markings remain, scorched onto the earth. The throng go silent, all eyes peering closely to read the words.
I don’t need to.
I’ve spent the entire day trying to scrub them out.
ART IS EVIL.
EMOTION IS EVIL.
GIVE IN TO LOGIC.
A confusion breeds in the crowd. People turn to look at the four mystery figures with a new expression: one of anger, and fear.
The black figures stay where they are. For a moment, none of them move.
And then they all move together.
With a coordinated motion, they all reach to their chests, and tear open the loose fabric that binds their black overalls. I squint forward at the nearest man, several dozen metres away, and feel my heart bursting inside my chest at the sight.
Bombs…
Around all their chests, rudimentary explosives are attached. A spread of fear rumbles through the crowd as they all scream and disperse.
But it’s too late.
As people scream out, and the crowd flee, the four figures nod to each other in unison.
And with my feet still rooted in place, I watch as the square erupts into a ball of flame.