by T. C. Edge
3
It’s Tess who reacts the quicker of the two of us.
Grabbing me by the shoulders, she pulls me back and around the side of the mural, tossing me to the floor as she does so. I stumble and fall and feel the heat as she comes down on top of me, the earth rumbling beneath us and the air filling with a deafening roar.
Hidden from the explosion, we huddle in a bundle of limbs on the ground for what seems like minutes. In reality, it’s only seconds.
The burst of noise is so loud that it leaves my ears ringing. After the sudden wave of heat comes one of smoke, black and dark grey fumes pouring out from the centre of the square.
For a moment, the aftermath of the explosion leaves a deathly silence in its wake. And then, slowly, the sounds of muffled screams spread into my ears again.
I lock eyes with Tess. Hers are hooded and yet alert, shining blue as the fog of smoke surrounds us.
“Are you OK?” she shouts as me.
I nod, and she stands back to her feet, peering back around the side of the mural. Her mouth slowly falls open as she gawps at the scene. I clamber to my feet, still half dazed, and take a look as well.
Devastation is the only word that springs to mind.
What was once the centre of the square is now a warzone. Little remains but for chunks of statues and monuments too sturdy to be completely eliminated by the blast. Bodies lie everywhere, cut up and torn apart, Culture Corner now coloured in a fresh coating of red blood.
On the outskirts of the blast, the injured cough and try to get to their feet, people spreading in from outside to help. Among them I see some Enhanced rush in, the towering figures of Brutes, dressed in the dark grey and black uniforms of the City Guard, hoisting people into their gigantic arms and getting them to safety.
Perched up on nearby rooftops, Hawks watch on too, their eagle eyes relaying information down to their fellow members of the Enhanced. I watch in awe as a couple of Dashers come hurtling in from nearby, their bodies moving so swiftly through the dispersing cloud of smoke, leaving clear trails behind them. They dart from person to person, checking for pulses and diagnosing injuries at a frightening speed. Determining who can be saved. And who are too far gone.
It’s at times like this when you see these people for what they truly are: superior. Remarkable. A higher evolution of the species.
Never have I witnessed them working together with such efficiency.
Quickly, Tess and I add our own bodies to the fray. Right before us, several people who’d caught the fringe of the blast lie clinging onto wounds and wailing to the heavens. As we step in to help them, a Dasher comes whizzing towards us, appearing as if from nowhere.
“No, not this one,” he says, his voice rushing as quickly as his feet. It’s a common side effect for Enhanced of his kind, talking in abbreviated bursts. “She may have a fractured spine. Don’t move her.”
“Um, OK,” murmurs Tess, looking at the guy with no small measure of wonder.
His eyes quickly dash to a couple of others, moaning nearby and bleeding from lacerations across their legs.
“Help those two,” he orders. “Wrap their wounds and halt the flow of blood.”
He doesn’t offer any further advice. Instead, he calls out loudly for a medic, before performing a closer inspection of the wounded woman at our feet.
Without delay, Tess and I set about helping where we can. Removing our jackets, we peel off our jumpers and begin shredding them to use for bandages and tourniquets, wrapping them tight around wounds as our hands are quickly soaked in blood.
Tess doesn’t recoil from the sight at all. It surprises me that the image of torn up legs and spurting blood has no impact on her, given her past. For me, it’s unpleasant, but not enough to prevent me from taking action. Together, we wrap the wounds and help to remove the two patients from the battlefield and towards an incoming army of awaiting ambulances.
Before long, a mini field hospital is being erected on the perimeter of the square. More bodies pile in, helping where they can, all the medics in the area called upon. Tess and I continue to offer our aid, working to support more of the injured as they limp and stumble their way towards proper medical treatment.
Everything happens in a bit of a rush, the scent of smoke and seared flesh lingering in the air. It’s a smell that puts the odour present back at the academy to shame. One my nostrils have never encountered before.
Truth be told, I never expected to know what charred human bodies smelt like.
It’s not until we get a moment to stop and rest that I notice that Tess herself is bleeding from a laceration on her upper right arm. I, too, have a couple of small cuts on my forehead, and a grazed cheek from when I was bundled to the floor.
We move over to the field hospital to get some attention. Tess’s arm is hastily sewn up by a medical stapler that pulls the torn flesh together, and then sears the wound shut. My own cuts require nothing but a bit of antiseptic cream, which Tess herself spreads onto my skin.
Standing on the boundary of the square, we both take a long breath and look upon the carnage. Neither of us speak for a moment as we try to come to terms with what’s just happened.
Around us dozens, maybe even hundreds, lie dead or wounded, Culture Corner now a morgue. Never before have the Fanatics committed such an atrocity. Graffiti and vandalism is one thing. This is something else entirely.
As we stand there, a figure stands out amid the rubble and debris in the middle of the square, sweeping in with a couple of armoured Brutes to his sides.
He wears a light grey suit, the sleeves tightly bound around his long arms, the collar buttoned up tight to the top of his neck with his head sprouting from the opening. A neat covering of perfectly manicured brown hair adorns the top of his head, his expression detached and unwelcoming.
There’s nothing decorative about his appearance at all, save the small insignia that sits on the middle of his chest below his collar: three circles, one inside the other, each signifying the three main classes of people in the city – the Unenhanced, the Enhanced, and the Court.
The innermost circle is coloured white, indicating that he’s a Savant, a member of the Court. The other two circles, representing the Enhanced and us, the Unenhanced, are coloured black.
The Brutes to his flanks carry the same insignia on their armour. Only, with them, the middle circle is white and the other two are black. Often you’ll see members of our own Council of the Unenhanced here in Outer Haven with the same badge. With them, of course, it’s the outer circle that’s white, proof of their more lowly standing.
Overall, it’s a quick and easy way to determine what class a particular city servant or official belongs to.
Even without the insignia, however, I’d know this man was a Savant. It’s in the eyes, pale blue, showing no emotion at all. His expression, flat and cold, even when looking upon a scene of such devastation, makes it clear that this man has little empathy for what’s happened here.
Yet, this sort of attack is unprecedented, and so here he is. Only when something extreme happens do any members of the Court appear, sent down here by the Consortium to ensure that public order is maintained. This man, however, is not from the Consortium from what I can tell. Within the class of the Court, their own hierarchy is determined by the colours of their clothing. Wearing light grey signifies that he’s high up, but not at the top of the tree. If he were, he’d be draped in the purest of whites, the blank, colourless attire reserved for those of the Consortium.
Never before has one of their rank come here to Outer Haven. As far as I know, they remain at the summit of the High Tower, and rarely even venture out into the streets of Inner Haven. For them, even meddling with members of the Enhanced is probably deemed an act of impurity. I can’t imagine what they’d feel like if they had to endure where I lived for a day or two.
But of course…they don’t feel at all. How stupid of me.
As I watch the man enter the square, I wonder what type of Savant he is.
All Savants have supreme intellect, and all are members of the Court. Yet within their ranks, some rare specimens can be found, those with additional mental abilities that boggle a simple mind such as mine.
I’ve heard of those who have the power of telekinesis, capable of moving things with nothing but their thoughts. Around here, they’re known as Mind-Movers, and exist as little more than rumours heard on the streets and among the youngsters of the academy.
Others apparently have the gift of telepathy, the psychic ability to communicate with each other through their thoughts. I’ve even heard about them being able to read minds, sneaking into people’s heads and seeing their innermost thoughts play out in front of them. We call them Mind-Manipulators.
Given that such powers exist in the mind, there’s no way to determine what other gifts a Savant might have purely by looking at them. Brutes are easy to spot for their colossal size and heavy, plodding demeanour. Hawks have intense eyes that glare and rarely blink. Savants – other than the detached and neutral expressions that adorn their faces – have no physical traits that call them apart.
By the look of the man, however, his role is within the City Guard. Most likely one of their senior members, overseeing the various Brutes and Hawks and Dashers who keep watch over the residents of Outer Haven to make sure we stay in line.
Mostly, they tend to do just that – watch – and not take an active part in dealing with most criminal activity. That is the domain of our own police force here, who are tasked with maintaining law and order. When a larger state crime occurs, however, the Enhanced and City Guard will get involved.
Clearly, this is one of those.
I find myself strangely transfixed by the Savant, so rarely are they seen. Tess, too, doesn’t utter a word as we just stand there, watching him passing along orders with a cold detachment. From around the square, other members of the City Guard rush over to update him on what’s been happening.
One of them, who I recognise as the Dasher who briefly engaged with Tess and me, swiftly darts to his side. As he speaks, his eyes wash over the square, before landing on us. A finger quickly rises up and points us out, and the eyes of the Savant land squarely upon us.
I feel my pulse quicken as I lock eyes with him. Even from this distance, it’s like looking into a void, a deep well, emptied out of any emotion or feeling.
With a casual and yet efficient walk, he begins marching in our direction. I share a look with Tess. Is he coming to talk to us?
Part of me wants to sink back into the crowd and disappear, but we stand our ground. As he glides in closer, his eyes never leave us. Try as I might to reciprocate, I can’t. I find myself looking away, his unblinking eyes making me strangely uncomfortable.
When he arrives in front of us, he stops and attempts to raise a smile on his thin lips. It’s all wrong. The shape of his lips and the relentless, disconnected staring of his eyes is completely incongruous. As if the upper and lower parts of his face are reading from entirely different scripts.
An attempt to humanise himself, perhaps, and display some emotion for our own benefit. Frankly, it doesn’t work at all. It merely makes him appear even more creepy.
“Good afternoon, ladies. My name is Leyton Burns, Deputy Commander of the City Guard. I am told that you have been aiding us in the clean-up?”
Arg. Clean up. Even his wording is off. He makes it sound like someone’s spilled a can of paint or something. Maybe it’s all that red blood…
“Yes, Deputy,” answers Tess, putting on her ‘respectful’ voice. “We’ve been doing what we can.”
“And we thank you for it,” says Deputy Burns, attempting to lift his smile a little higher. I cringe at the sight. The partial monotone quality to his voice is also rather unnerving. “I am told, too, that you witnessed the explosion?”
“We did,” answers Tess.
Deputy Burns nods, staring now directly into Tess’s brighter blue eyes. She frowns and recoils a touch.
“Please, don’t move,” says Deputy Burns. “Stare right into my eyes. This will only take a minute.”
I can see Tess struggling to do as she’s told. His odd, staring eyes peer deep, his entire body still as a statue. I watch on, unable to look away from the strange scene, as Tess’s breathing grows a little more abbreviated. Then, suddenly, Deputy Burns seems to come back to life, leaning back and nodding.
“Good,” he says.
Then he turns to me.
“What was that?” I ask, noting the strange expression on Tess’s face, as if she’s just waking from a dream.
“I searched her hippocampus to trace her memory,” he says. “It’s the centre of memory and emotion in the brain.”
He looks to me, and then seems to remember he’s speaking with an Unenhanced. “To put it simply,” he adds, “I read her mind to see the event for myself from her viewpoint. Now, please be still.”
Once more, his eyes seem to lock in place, going completely still as they stare right into mine. I feel like I’m involved in the most intense staring contest ever conceived, something that the kids play back at the academy.
I was never very good at it.
Right now, though, I have no choice. I hold my hazel irises on his pale blue ones, and try to ignore everything else that’s going on around me. Within seconds, my eyes begin to ache, and I feel a strange sense of constriction in my head, as if my brain’s being squeezed in a vice.
It’s as though I can feel him in my head, poking around and searching for the right memory. It’s an invasive and unpleasant act that leaves me feeling a little violated. A person’s memory is the most sacred part of them. It’s what makes them who they are. No stranger should ever be invited in.
Mercifully, it doesn’t last long.
Slowly, the darkness that encloses my vision fades, and the world comes back into view. I look at Deputy Burns, and see the first sign of some expression on his face. A little frown hangs over his eyes, his otherwise pristine forehead ever so slightly wrinkled.
“Tell me. What is your name?” he asks me, a curiosity in his voice.
“Brie Melrose,” I say.
“And where do you live, Brie?”
“We both live at Carmichael’s Academy,” I say. “Her name’s Tess Bradbury.”
His eyes move to Tess briefly, before coming back to mine.
“I see. Well, I thank you both for your time today. Please, continue with your afternoons. We will take it from here.”
He performs a courteous little nod, inspects me for just a second longer, and then turns on his heels and glides off again, accompanied by his two guards.
We watch him go, and for the first time since he approached, I feel myself beginning to breathe normally again.
“That was…weird,” says Tess. “I didn’t like that at all.”
“Nor did I,” I say. “I feel like I need a shower.”
Tess manages a chuckle, but quickly realises it’s completely out of place for this particular situation. Surrounded by corpses, this is hardly the place to be caught laughing. More than anything, though, it’s a chuckle of awkwardness. And I know exactly how she feels.
Still standing there, a croaky call sounds behind us.
“Girls! Girls!”
We turn together to see Mrs Carmichael come shuffling along on her old legs, wearing a threadbare old maroon dress and scruffy leather jacket. Her eyes are in stark contrast to those of the Deputy, filled with turmoil and worry as she rushes on.
“Girls, you’re OK! Oh thank God. I heard about the explosion…I can’t believe it…”
She sweeps us both into her arms, locking us in tight, the stench of tobacco that she carries along with her briefly overpowering the odour of scorched flesh and smoke that continues to linger in the air.
Releasing us, she quickly gazes upon the minor wounds we carry, before inspecting our eyes in a wholly different manner to Deputy Burns. Then, it’s to the man himself that her eyes move, turning to him as he continues to coor
dinate matters on the other side of the square.
“Who was that man?” she asks intently.
“Deputy Commander of the City Guard,” says Tess, looking at him once more with an element of fascination.
“A Savant? A member of the Court?” asks Mrs Carmichael quickly.
“That, and more,” Tess says. “He was a Mind-Manipulator.”
A hint of concern shows in our guardian’s eyes.
“He read your minds?” she asks, looking directly at us with a frown.
“Yeah,” I say. “He wanted to see what happened from our viewpoint. Nothing major.”
“That’s all?”
“Yup,” remarks Tess. “It was kinda weird. It didn’t hurt or anything, it just felt, I don’t know, I can’t think of the word…”
“Intrusive,” I offer.
“Yeah, that’s it. Intrusive. Like finding some random person in your bedroom, rooting through your personal stuff.”
Mrs Carmichael takes a breath, but continues to look concerned.
“Is something wrong, Mrs Carmichael?” I ask.
She seems to right herself, pulling her lips up into an awkward smile.
“No, nothing. I’m just…as long as you girls are OK, that’s all that matters to me.”
She pulls us into another hug, displaying far more affection than normal. Mostly, she’s fairly tough, not the type to cry or get emotional about things. It’s a symptom of the job, really. Half of those who come to the academy will end up back on the street later in life. Getting too attached to us isn’t usually part of the job.
It’s clear, however, that those she’s known the longest are quite dear to her.
She turns from the scene, seemingly unwilling to spend too long looking at it. Or maybe it’s the Deputy who she’d prefer to avoid. Her views on the Enhanced, and the Savants in particular, are fairly well documented around the academy.
“Come now, girls. You’ve done all you can here. Let’s go back home. You can tell me all about it there.”
With a rare haste – Mrs Carmichael doesn’t tend to do anything quickly these days – she ushers us away from the scene.