by T. C. Edge
I wake from a brief and broken sleep and immediately head for the common room, leaving Tess coiled up in the foetal position in her bed. Already, the academy is starting to come alive, the sound of voices spreading from the various avenues of the ground floor taken up by the youngsters.
Thankfully, I find the common room itself empty. A few more minutes of peace before the bombardment begins…
I flick on the television set and it gradually blooms into life. The sight that greets my eyes sends my heart pounding.
“Devastation in the eastern quarter,” reads the headline at the bottom of the screen.
Behind it, an image of a flaming warehouse fills the view, the building blown apart and being hastily cleaned up by a relief team. Towards the rear, dozens of body bags are lined up, with others being removed on stretchers or added to the growing pile of dead.
A reporter stands in front of the camera, his voice grave as he speaks.
“So far, the count of dead hasn’t been determined,” he says. “But it looks likely to rival the attack at Culture Corner only days ago. The warehouse behind me was operating on a night schedule, filled with innocent people just doing their jobs. Many are still being pulled from the rubble. So far, no survivors have been found.”
As the man speaks, the door opens behind me and Abby comes in. She’s only 8 years of age, and this sort of carnage shouldn’t be witnessed by her eyes.
“Hey Brie!” she says, her innocent face lighting up. She comes clattering over to me and gives me a hug. “You were amazing yesterday!” Then her eyes flow towards the television, and her demeanour changes. “What’s going on?” she asks.
“Oh, nothing interesting,” I say quickly. “You should go to the canteen, Abby. Breakfast will be starting.”
She frowns and squishes up her little features.
“There’s been another bomb, hasn’t there?”
I forget how perceptive kids can be, even though I’m only 18 myself.
I shake my head and prepare to deliver a white lie, but she continues.
“I felt it last night in my room. The ground was shaking. Did lots of people die?”
I can tell there will be no fooling her.
“Well….some,” I admit, noting that she’s already seen the body bags on the screen. “But it’s OK, it was right on the other side of the city. We’re safe here.”
“Are you sure?” she asks softly, looking for comfort.
“Of course,” I say, pulling her into a hug. “You think Mrs Carmichael would let anything happen to her academy? I don’t think so!”
I draw a little smile from her face and quickly reach over to turn off the TV.
“There, all gone. Now come on, let’s get some food.”
I stand up and lead her out of the room and into the canteen. Some of her friends are there already, giggling in their group.
“Go join your friends,” I tell her.
“I’ll stay with you if you want,” she says.
“No…I have work I need to get on with. It’s OK, go to your friends.”
Her eyes scrunch up with concern as she looks at me.
“But it’s not safe out there.”
“Don’t worry. There are Con-Cops and City Guards everywhere. Nothing’s going to happen, I promise.”
I’ve learned the word ‘promise’, when delivered by someone with authority, has the desired effect of settling nerves and dousing concerns. It’s a trick Mrs Carmichael taught me, herself a master at keeping the youngsters in order. More than a few times, in fact, she used that particular word to settle me down when I was a resident of the ground floor.
Thankfully, it works, and after another quick hug, Abby rushes off to eat with her friends. They huddle round her as she comes, keen to find out what we were talking about.
Sometimes, I miss the innocence of youth. Adulthood seemed to creep up on me so fast…
Once she’s gone, I pop my head around the door in the kitchen to see if Drum is still on duty. With a new week beginning, it appears as though his run is up, another of the transitioners having taken on the role.
He looks at me with a bit of shock as I appear, eyes popping and his arm fixing to stone as he stirs a large pot of gruel.
“Don’t mind me,” I say. “Carry on.”
I guess I’m going to have to get used to being looked at like that, what with my newfound celebrity status and all.
Leaving the kitchen and canteen behind, I find myself accosted by a fresh batch of youngsters pouring down the corridor to breakfast. I brace for the storm of questions and they duly oblige, a dozen voices flooding towards me at once.
“I guess you saw it all on TV?” I ask them all, referencing the previous day’s events.
They all nod and chatter.
“Of course! We’ve seen it, like, a hundred times!”
A round of laughter follows.
“Well then,” I say, “I’ve got nothing to add really. You saw what I saw, didn’t’ you?”
They appear disappointed.
“But…what else happened, away from the camera? Come on, Brie, tell us, tell us!”
“Nothing,” I lie. “I just went there and came back. Now off you go to breakfast. I’ve got things to do.”
I hear them grumble as they move down the corridor, one kid saying: “Maybe Tess will tell us.”
I laugh inside at the idea. They’ll be in for a rude awakening if they try to bother Tess today.
I spend the next hour attempting to gather more intel about the latest explosion. The reports on TV only give me so much, but I learn that it was a production and storage warehouse for food products that was destroyed.
It hardly makes sense. Up to this point, the Fanatics have been spraying their graffiti over art installations, primarily in the southern quarter. The attack at Culture Corner, terrible as it was, made sense: it was a public attack, an attack on art and emotion, an escalation of their war against our civil liberties.
But this? Blowing up a food warehouse over in the eastern quarter at night. It doesn’t exactly fall in line with what they appear to be about.
Fresh evidence, however, points the finger squarely at them. As the flames are extinguished and the scene investigated, the same graffiti we’ve seen elsewhere begins to appear, scattered over broken bits of wall. As the macabre puzzle is put back together, it becomes clear that the Fanatics were, in fact, to blame.
I guess it could have been no one else. It must simply be that their hatred of our liberties is now extending to our consumption of food. I suppose it’s another expression of freedom and pleasure, creating all manner of foods that the wealthier residents enjoy. If they had it their way, we’d all be on gruel and nothing else.
As I sit and watch the latest reports, Mrs Carmichael appears through the door.
“Ah, Brie, I thought you’d be in here…”
“Have you heard about this?” I ask hurriedly.
“Yes, I have. I guess you were right last night. I wish you weren’t.”
She looks at me, my eyes glued to the screen.
“Now don’t be getting any ideas about going over there, Brie,” she says. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“I wasn’t thinking that,” I say, honestly. “I have work to do, right?”
According to my rota, today was supposed to be a clean up job at an office not far from here.
“Oh, no. I’ve assigned that to someone else. You and Tess should take a couple of days off, let things die down a bit. You’ll only be harassed out there.”
“So…stay here at the academy? I’ll be harassed just as much here as anywhere. Probably more.”
“Yes, well stick to your room and you’ll be OK. Now let me check that cut.”
She comes in and quickly inspects my wound. There’s little point. It’s absolutely fine. Frankly, she’s been acting overly caring recently, a far cry from her usual stoic self.
Before she leaves the room, she pulls a little bag from her pocket.
“Here you go, fresh supplies,” she says, handing it to me.
More pills.
Then she’s off, disappearing to deliver fresh orders for the day to the youngsters, always keen to maintain a tight ship. She’ll have them doing chores, running errands, learning some of the core skills that will hopefully help them find employment when they reach working age.
It’ll work for some, but not for others. That’s just the nature of things here.
The thought brings Drum back into my mind. As the common room begins to fill with more bodies, I take my leave without being pestered too heavily. Given what’s happening on the TV, their attention is already moving off elsewhere.
I move up the first floor and back to Drum’s room. When I knock this time, I receive an answer. It’s not Drum’s voice that calls back, but one of his roommates.
I go in to find Fred, a small red-headed child with a face littered with freckles and a spindly frame that’s in stark contrast to his oversized roommate. He’s a nice kid, though, as is the third of their little crew, Ziggy, who appears to be absent.
Mrs Carmichael has always put like-minded kids together where she can. Quite what happened with Tess and me I don’t know…
I quickly scan the room and see that Drum is also absent.
“He’s not here,” says Fred, without being prompted.
“Where is he?”
“Working. Clean up I think. Mrs Carmichael had two spots spare, she told us. Gave them to Drum and Ziggy.” There’s an air of resignation in his voice.
“Ah, OK,” I say. “Chin up, Fred, you’ll get work eventually.”
He nods feebly and dips his long nose back into a book on his lap. The poor kid looks upset. His days are very much numbered here.
As I shut the door, however, I think it fortunate that Drum’s got some work. And it was clearly Tess and me who made way. If I could, I’d happily sacrifice half my work if it meant Drum got to take it on.
With a smile, I return to my room to find Tess still curled up in a mess. It’s dark inside, the sharp light from the corridor cutting in across her bed.
“Oh God,” she says, shielding her eyes. “Shut it…please.”
I draw it to a close, nice and slow.
“I’m never drinking again,” she mutters, pulling the blanket over her eyes.
“That’s what they all say,” comes my standard response. “You’ll be happy to know that we have the day off, maybe more.”
“Awesome…thank you Mrs Carmichael,” she groans. “What you been doing today?”
She peeks from below her blanket, the room dim.
I consider telling her the latest news, but deduce that she’s probably not in the best state to hear about it right now.
So I merely shrug and tell her nothing, before slipping onto my bed.
And set my eyes back on my parents, staring at me as a baby.
17
The following couple of days trickle by like a slow moving stream.
Days off are rare enough. Having several in a row is unheard of, and something I’m not conditioned to. I can already feel myself getting restless.
Under strict orders from Mrs Carmichael, however, Tess and I spend our time within the academy, keeping to our room for much of it and feverishly discussing the events of the previous few days.
When I tell her about my little night-time walk after getting back from Inner Haven, she suggests that it was little more than my mind playing tricks on me.
“Brie, you were drunk, it was probably just a shadow or something.”
“I wasn’t drunk, Tess. That was you. And I think I can distinguish between a shadow and a creepy human under a coat.”
“Fine. Just a Disposable then who’d come down from the northern quarter. You’re asking for trouble if you wander those alleys at night.”
“You should have led with that,” I say. “Makes more sense than being chased by a shadow.”
“Chased? Don’t be so dramatic, Brie. You just got spooked and ran into a bin. Serves you right for being such a wimp!”
Her comment warrants a pillow to the face. I just wish it was something harder.
Across the city, the latest attack sends a real shudder through the ranks of the population. A fear begins to spread, and we learn that people are beginning to stay in their homes, afraid of being caught in a blast. Mostly, it’s illogical to think like that – in a city this vast, the chance of being anywhere near an attack is extremely slim – and yet that’s the nature of fear.
It warps the logical mind, wipes out rational thought.
All over, reports come in that more City Guards are being spotted on patrol, and that the Con-Cops are truly out in force, casting their dead and Savant-like eyes across the city streets, vigilantly looking out for any hint of a new attack.
The number of dead from the warehouse bombing is also reported. It’s the opposite picture from what we saw at Culture Corner. There, the number of dead was vastly outstripped by the number of injured. At the warehouse, however, more were killed, with only a handful of people left alive.
Across the city, the regular sound of funeral bells can be heard, a sorrowful soundtrack that fills the air each day. From early morning until late evening, the bells are regularly rung, families and friends saying goodbye to the dead, their loved ones consumed by fire at one of the many crematoriums scattered throughout Outer Haven.
Cremation is the only means of disposing of the dead now. There’s no space for burials, not even for headstones. Many years ago, such customs were lost. Now, it’s even rare for ashes to be kept, urns a rarity and found only in the homes of the more devout and spiritual families living here.
It’s one of the many policies of the Savants that has spread among our own people. For them, the dead serve no purpose. They feel no sentimentality for those no longer able to contribute to the living world, their minds directed at nothing else but re-building the species, recolonizing the world; looking forward, not back.
Now, even Unenhanced have learned to think in the same way. When the dead are gone, they’re gone. You honour them with a quick funeral, and then that’s that. Life goes on.
Only, for some of us, we never got that funeral. We never got to know those we lost. Here at the orphanage, the concept of loss takes a different form. It’s what binds us all together.
As our second day of captivity ensues, fresh reports tell of new waves of graffiti popping up across the city, the southern quarter in particular being besieged.
Promises of new attacks are written in bold print, warning the people to change their ways or face the consequences. A spokesman from the Council of the Unenhanced comes forward and tells us that everything is in order, and that all is being done to apprehend these Fanatics and prevent any further atrocities.
No one believes them.
That night, I go in search of Drum once more. This time I find him, hunched on his bed, covered in dust and dirt. He’s alone.
“Been keeping busy?” I ask as I enter, shutting the door behind me.
Since taking over my job for the last few days, he’s been almost entirely absent from the academy, returning only to sleep and eat before setting out again.
He nods wearily. A boy of his size will be expected to work hard. I’m sure his client is working him like a mule.
“I made a few mistakes,” he mumbles. “Broke some furniture when I was moving it. They said they’d take it out of my pay.”
“Is that why you’ve been working so late? To make up for it?”
He nods again. I can tell he’s worried. He’s had a few jobs before, but the clients are rarely satisfied. This might just be his last chance.
“I wouldn’t even have this job if it wasn’t for you,” he says. “When Mrs Carmichael lets you out again, I’ll be back here…I know it.”
“You don’t know that, Drum.” I move in and lay an arm around his wide shoulders. “It’s good that Mrs Carmichael thought of you first…and who k
nows, maybe I’ll be stuck here a little longer.”
“She only did it cos she owes me,” he says.
He cuts himself off, twisting his neck to look a little away from me.
“What do you mean, owes you?” I ask.
It’s unlike Drum to say such a thing. He’s always been so grateful for being here, and has never spoken a word against our guardian.
“Nothing,” he says, closing off.
It’s not nothing. I know it’s about what he saw…
“Where were you the other night?” I ask him. “When I got back from Inner Haven, you weren’t here.”
“Oh, yeah…how was that, by the way? I haven’t seen you since then.”
He’s trying to change the topic. He’s not usually so crafty.
“Boring,” is all I say. “You were out with Mrs Carmichael weren’t you?”
His bushy eyebrows lower.
“No,” he says.
It’s so obvious when he’s lying.
“Drum, I can see right through you. I know you were out with her, because I heard you in her room. She told you to keep quiet about what you saw. Don’t lie to me now, Drum.”
He shuffles uncomfortably, and the entire bedframe shifts a few inches across the floor.
“I, um…fine, I was with her.”
He stops short, trying to give himself time to form some sort of story.
“I went to the black market with her,” he says eventually, suddenly speaking with more confidence. “She needed to get some things, and asked me to go too.”
“You mean, to the northern quarter?”
“Yeah, exactly. You know how she takes me with her sometimes. It’s dangerous there. She likes to have a bodyguard.”
Now this isn’t a lie. In the past, she has been known to take Drum with her when she heads to the market. Mostly, it’s where she picks up her stocks of cigarettes and alcohol, as well as the diabetes pills she gives me.
Carrying that sort of load home can make you a target for thieves, especially if you’re just an old woman. And taking Drum along for the ride is a way to deter anyone from mugging her.
Personally, I’ve never liked it much. Drum, for all his size, is only a boy, and a timid one at that. When he goes along, it only means I have two people to worry about, rather than one.
