The Enhanced Series Boxset

by T. C. Edge

  But still, life goes on. Those living on the top floor move off to work. The youngsters continue to do their chores. Above all, it’s the transitioners who have been most affected, close as they were to the two deceased. Their lives are already filled with enough concern as it is. Having to deal with death is an additional burden they could do without.

  As midday approaches, Mrs Carmichael gathers a small troop of Fred and Ziggy’s closest cohorts to take to the crematorium. I find Drum absent from the throng, and ask Mrs Carmichael if she’s seen him.

  She appears as confused as I am.

  “No. He must have gone to work I suppose…”

  “Really? Today? Does he know about the funeral?”

  “Yes, I told him yesterday morning before he left for work. He seemed a little…well, he was distracted, as you would be. Perhaps the grief is too near for him.”

  It could well be. Or maybe he’s too frightened to lose his job. After all, he’d gone straight off to the eastern quarter yesterday, despite only just learning of his friends’ deaths. The same could be true of today.

  For many – most, even – laying the dead to rest is a short and simple affair. Cremation is the only method, and for the most part, services take no longer than five or ten minutes.

  The tradition of gathering ashes and keeping them in urns, or scattering them in places of sentimental value to the departed, have long since faded away. Only a very few keep to that custom. Most simply attend the service in silent reflection, before turning the deceased into nothing but a memory.

  Keeping the residue of their bodies is no longer a common practice.

  For the children of Carmichael’s, the concept of death is ever present. It’s what binds us, what has brought us all here in the first place. We are all defined by it, named orphans after our parents saw their lives taken from them, whether through natural or unnatural causes.

  Most have attended funerals in the past. Many of their first memories will be of seeing one or both of their parents laid to rest. So today, as we prepare to do the same to Fred and Ziggy, it’s not just their deaths that are drawing tears from eyes, and filling stomachs with cement.

  Old wounds are being opened that these kids have worked so hard to close. Hearts are breaking open all over again, afflictions that Mrs Carmichael, for all her proficiency with a needle, is unable to sew up.

  We attend the funeral in district 3 of the western quarter, a little way eastwards of Brick Lane. Walking in a troupe of about a dozen, we move along like a cold gust of wind, dressed in black or whatever dark clothes we can find.

  All over the streets, similar groups appear, their heads bowed and eyes stained red. As we near the crematorium, we find the area awash with black, the funerals so short that queues have formed as the mourners gather to pay their respects.

  We line up at the back, gradually moving closer to the entrance as little groups move in and out, barely staying there for more than five minutes. Some are like we are, with perhaps a dozen or more attendees. Others have only one or two grievers to see them off.

  As the clock ticks towards midday, we find that we’re still behind several others. I see the funeral director come out and call for the mourners of a Mr Arnold Thompson.

  No one responds. The man will be burnt alone, with not a single soul as witness.

  It’s a depressing thought amid a depressing day. But the same will be true all over. Many will die with no one to love them, no one to say goodbye. At least you can say that Fred and Ziggy are leaving behind many who’ll remember them.

  It’s a small note of solace for two boys who died so young.

  Eventually, after a few delays, we find ourselves at the front of the queue, more than half an hour past our time. I have one final look around to see if Drum has appeared around a street corner. There’s no sign of his gargantuan frame.

  In we go, through towards one of many rooms assigned to the task of sending on the dead. It’s small inside, and silent, a couple of rows of tightly packed seats waiting ahead of a stage.

  Upon the stage lie two metal tables. And on them, two bodies covered in crimson sheets.

  “Can we take a final look at them?” asks Mrs Carmichael.

  The funeral director shakes his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he tells her. “Their bodies are not how you’d remember. You wouldn’t like what you see.”

  He doesn’t need to say any more. Caught right in the market, it’s a wonder there’s anything left of them. The undulating shape of the sheets suggests that the remains below are not intact. Most probably, they’ve already been partially cremated by the blast.

  We take our seats, lining up on the two rows, and the funeral director says a few words, speaking the basic funeral rites. Once he’s done, he invites Mrs Carmichael to speak, if she should wish.

  She declines.

  The director moves to the wall and presses a button, and a clear protective screen rises up at the front of the stage. As soon as it reaches its summit, another button is pushed, and the two metal tables begin to glow orange and red around the edges.

  Moments later, a furious storm of flames have risen, engulfing the bodies and sheets and quickly turning them black. A few sniffs sound behind and around me as the bodies burn and are quickly eaten away. After a few short minutes, the flames die down, leaving nothing but a scattering of black ash across the surface of the tables.

  The funeral director calls an end to the service. We stand and silently make our way outside, passing other rooms performing the same truncated ceremony. Unfortunately, the luxury of lengthy funerals isn’t something anyone of us can afford here.

  We walk back home as we came, trailing the streets like ghosts. I find myself at the back with Mrs Carmichael, her eyes wandering to mine. I always know when someone’s looking at me now, even if they think I can’t see.

  “Are you OK?” she asks. “You seem…lost.”

  “No more than anyone else,” I lie.

  “You have cause to be, though, Brie. What they’re asking you to do. You know you don’t have to? You can still turn away from all of this if you want.”

  I slowly shake my head.

  “How can I? I couldn’t live with myself if I stood back and let people die. I’m going to fight one way or another. I have no choice in that.”

  “And you believe them?” she asks. “You believe everything they’re telling you, even after all the lies?”

  “Not lies,” I correct her. “Just…hidden truths. Honestly, I don’t really know what to believe at the moment.”

  “And you trust them? You barely know them, Brie.”

  “I trust Zander,” I say. “He’s my twin brother.”

  “And you’re sure about that?”

  She continues to peer at me, her distrust of anything she doesn’t understand serving to warp her opinion. My eyes don’t get drawn in. They stick to the street ahead, at the plodding children carving their way back to the academy.

  “I’m sure,” I say after a brief silence, which no doubt to her will confirm my uncertainty.

  She remains unconvinced, that much is clear. For her to truly believe something, she needs to feel it with her own fingers, see it with her own eyes. She trusts so little and so few. Even my word doesn’t seem enough for her.

  When we reach the top of Brick Lane, the kids begin to speed their step towards the academy half way down. No longer needing to keep her eyes on them, Mrs Carmichael stops me with a hand on the arm.

  I turn to her properly for the first time since we left the crematorium. Her old blue eyes look upon me, murky and cloudy and covered in little crinkled webs of red. It’s obvious she hasn’t been sleeping well.

  “I don’t think you should do it,” she says. “None of it. You should come home for good. I can find you better work, maybe…or you could help me run the academy full time. All of this is too dangerous, Brie. You’re going to get killed if you keep this up…”

  “And I might just get killed anyw
ay. Or Tess might. Or you or Drum or Abby. Or any of the kids. You know what’s going on, Brenda. You’ve been saying it all along, speaking out against the Savants. Why are you changing your mind now?”

  “I’m not changing my mind. Not about that. But why do you have to be involved? Yes, I know you have these powers now. But surely there’s another way…”

  I shrug and turn my eyes back down the street.

  “I don’t know. I don’t have the answers. But one way or another, none of us are safe anymore. There’s nowhere to hide from this.”

  We continue on, reaching the academy and turning in through the entrance. In the hall, the others who joined us at the funeral are removing their coats and hanging them in the closet, traipsing in mud and grime from the streets.

  As we enter, an unbroken voice calls through the little crowd, and we see Nate tumbling towards us from behind the reception desk. He holds an electronic letter in his small hands, and my thoughts immediately turn to Adryan.

  Another letter from the Council of Matrimony no doubt, inviting me along for my second date…

  There’s a rush to Nate’s voice, however, and a look of concern in his eyes. My suspicion is proven wrong when he reaches us and spreads his hands forward to Mrs Carmichael and not me.

  She takes the letter and her eyes crease too.

  “What is it?” I ask, looking over.

  Above the seal, a distinctive stamp is visible.

  “The Department of Corrections,” I whisper.

  I share a look with my guardian before she hastily removes the seal. I huddle next to her and watch as the writing on the letter glows to life.

  As I read the words, my chest compresses, and my breathing speeds. I feel like I’m being crushed by some invisible force.

  Dear Mrs Carmichael,

  It is our understanding that you are the guardian of one

  Joshua Brent, a resident of your academy on Brick

  Lane in district 5 of the western quarter.

  Unfortunately, we have to inform you that Joshua has been

  taken to the holding cells on the western boundary of

  Outer Haven, where he will await sentencing, to be

  determined this evening.

  The charge is murder.

  Please do not respond to this message.

  Sincerely,

  Christopher Lipton,

  The Department of Corrections

  I stare at the words and so does my guardian. Neither of us speak.

  Then, Nate’s little voice rises, standing on his tiptoes to read the letter.

  “Who’s Joshua Brent?” he asks.

  Mrs Carmichael’s hands drop down, taking the letter with them. She lets out a breath of air.

  “Drum,” she whispers quietly. “Josh is his real name…”

  47

  I tear the letter from Mrs Carmichael’s hand and read it again.

  “There’s got to be some mistake,” I say, my voice rising in panic. “This can’t be right. We need to call them.”

  “We can’t,” says Mrs Carmichael. “They say it explicitly, and there’s no way for us to get in contact…”

  “Well…we have to do something!”

  My breathing is reaching fever pitch. I might just hyperventilate.

  Mrs Carmichael takes me by the shoulders.

  “Breathe, Brie...just breathe.”

  She begins taking several long, deep breaths, urging me to follow.

  “It’ll be OK,” she says. “Drum will be OK. Look, I’ll call the supervisor where he’s been working and find out if he knows anything. Wait here, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  She rushes back out of the door, most likely heading down the street to the nearest video communication interface planted at the bottom of Brick Lane.

  I find myself pacing from side to side, trying to calm my intake of air as Nate takes over from Mrs Carmichael in coaxing me through a few breathing exercises. I barely notice his presence as my eyes scan the letter again and again.

  It can’t be right. It just can’t. Drum wouldn’t hurt a fly…

  My mind churns with thoughts of what could have happened. Thoughts of what will happen to him now, if all this is true.

  Murder…no, it can’t be true…

  But what if it is?

  Such a thing carries with it only two possible sentences: execution or reconditioning. If the latter, that likely means being turned into a slave.

  A Con-Cop.

  A mindless, emotionless drone for the Consortium to use as they see fit.

  It may sound odd to say, but the former sentence is preferable. Better death that falling under the dark wing of the High Tower.

  But no…this can’t be real. It can’t be right. Drum could never kill someone.

  I pace so hard that Nate gets left behind. The rest of those remaining in the hall appear confused as to what’s going on. Nate sees fit to fill them in.

  His explanation is greeted with further puzzlement.

  “No way!” they say. “Not Drum. He hasn’t got a violent bone in his body.”

  I agree with the sentiment, but begin to seek answers.

  “When was the last time any of you saw him?” I ask, turning to them.

  “Yesterday morning,” says one. “At breakfast.”

  The rest shrug.

  “And no one saw him last night? Or this morning?”

  I see a round of shaking heads.

  As I begin pacing again, Mrs Carmichael reappears. Her face is as grave as a cemetery. As her eyes find mine, I immediately know the letter is real.

  Drum has killed a man…

  She walks in slowly, directing her path at me. All else falls silent.

  “It’s true?” I whisper.

  She nods.

  “But…how. What happened?”

  She lets out a weak sigh, her words croaking through the silence.

  “He’s been getting teased at work, according to the foreman,” she says, shaking her head. “I guess, after Fred and Ziggy, he couldn’t take it anymore.”

  My heart snaps in two. Tears start gathering.

  “He should never have gone to work,” groans Mrs Carmichael. “Not in that state. The men…they still teased him. I guess they didn’t know what he was going through. The foreman said he just…lashed out. Picked up a man by the neck with one hand. Snapped him in two.”

  Drum…poor Drum…

  The tears tumble, slipping from my eyes. I shut them tight and feel Mrs Carmichael’s arms wrap me up.

  I let her hold me for a few moments before pulling away. I squeeze my eyes so hard that all the tears are cast out. When I open them, they’re filled with a fresh resolve.

  I won’t let him be turned into one of them. I won’t let him die…

  I surge past her, pushing through towards the door. She calls behind me. “Brie, where are you going?”

  I don’t listen. I’m out into the cold mist of the early afternoon in a flash. All over, the funeral bells continue to ring, the day of mourning less than half way past.

  Thousands grieve for the hundreds of dead.

  I won’t let Drum join them.

  I hurry my step northwards along Brick Lane, and hear my guardian’s voice again. It’s panting, calling out as she hurries to catch me. I turn with fierce eyes and she stops.

  “There’s nothing you can do, Brie. Drum made a mistake, a terrible mistake. But he has to pay for it…”

  “His only mistake was being born what he was! He’s been taunted his whole life. Yes he made a mistake, but that man brought it on himself, he must have. I’m not going to let Drum die for it.”

  I prepare to turn. Her voice stops me.

  “What are you going to do?!” she asks. “Please, Brie, come back inside…don’t do anything stupid!”

  I fix my Hawk-eyes on her, let the fire burn bright inside.

  “No, Brenda,” I growl. “This is something I have to do.”

  Before she can speak again, I s
pin and dash away, running through the streets, working my way northwards to district 6. I know what I need to do. But I know I can’t do it alone.

  And there’s only one person who can help me.

  The streets are still busy, the afternoon in its early throes. It lets me move freely, without having to worry about sneaking about after curfew. I reach the shelter at district 6 without interruption, blending in with the rest of the black-clothed mourners floating about in a sea of grief.

  With a perfunctory look either way, I disappear inside, and drop into the darkness. I stop for a moment in the silence and make sure I’m not being followed, that I haven’t been seen.

  I know where the lock is now. My fingers find it quickly. They press in the brick and the secret door opens. In a flash I disappear within, closing myself off from the world above.

  In the safe silence of the passage, I stop and take a breath. Zander will be down in the caverns later on, but not until after dark. I need him sooner. I need him now.

  I hold the image of his face in my head, and project the words I need him to hear.

  I NEED YOU NOW. I NEED YOU NOW.

  I repeat the words over and over, and wait for a reply. It comes quickly, our connection growing, every telepathic word spoken between us strengthening the pathways for more to follow.

  I hear only two words, echoing inside. But they’re all I need.

  I’m coming.

  Into the pitch dark I pounce, letting my body surge and setting my Dasher powers loose for the first time. I sense the tunnel walls beginning to blur, and the sensation of time begin to slow. There’s no point of reference but for the water dripping from the tunnel ceiling, droplets drifting slowly through the air and appearing to gently float to the bottom in a partial state of suspended animation.

  Yet while they float so slowly, my limbs move freely. I charge along, my muscles aching and burning as I emerge from the narrow confines of the passage and into the large caverns of the underlands.

  When I arrive, I stop and feel my energy draining. Still so new to me, my muscles aren’t used to using my Dasher abilities, quickly losing their ability to function after any extended period of activity.