by T. C. Edge
The boundaries separating the four quarters of Outer Haven aren’t immediately discernible. There’s no wall, for example, like the one separating us from Inner Haven. There are no checkpoints to clarify which part of the city you’re in.
Instead, there’s a distinct feel, or flavour, to each area. The south is mostly determined by its art and culture, by its relative wealth compared to the other quarters.
The west, where I reside, is the busiest residential area, the streets winding and bustling, filled with little trade shops and markets, and larger squares where the neon lights and advertising boards and giant holograms are at their most prominent.
The east, where the shape of the earth rises a little higher, is known for its manufacturing and industry, large swathes of it given over to the factories and warehouses that chug away, night and day, to create the food and other commodities that the residents of the city need.
Then there’s the north, characterised by its destitution and poverty, itself divided by its various districts. In the southern part of the quarter it’s largely residential, linking seamlessly with the tower blocks and other urban dwellings that dominate the western quarter. There, it’s relatively safe, if a little grim and dank and dirty, the neon glow of the advertising growing sparse and dim.
Go further north, however, and you’ll find yourself in an old industrial area, no longer in operation and long since abandoned. Up there, where the Disposables dwell, law and order barely functions, the place mostly forgotten and avoided by the residents of the city.
It’s a place I’ve never been, where remnants and relics of the old world still remain, the skeletons of ancient buildings still littering the cracked and broken streets. Venture there, and you’d better have a good reason. It isn’t a place for the faint of heart.
The change in the light grows apparent as I go, cruising along the Conveyor Line and into the southern districts of the north. As the daylight starts to fade, bringing the first signs of night, so do the advertising boards, thought to be useless around here. After all, no one has the money to buy the products they’re touting.
The multi-coloured drench that I’m so used to becomes non-existent, replaced by a dark grey palette that brings with it a threatening and ominous feel. A menacing atmosphere that only grows more foreboding the further north I travel.
Soon, however, the Conveyor Line swerves off eastwards, reaching its most northerly point. I step off, and look upon older lines and junctions that once spread right to the northernmost part of Outer Haven.
No more.
Now, they’re nothing but relics themselves, left to wither and die in much the same manner as the streets and districts they used to service.
I have no choice but to continue on foot, working my way through the gritty streets and towards district 5. As far as I know it, the black market remains hidden to those who don’t know about it, a necessary means to keep it concealed from the authorities.
Only from district 5 can you find the markings that will take you there, hidden in plain sight and only visible through the special lenses Mrs Carmichael provided.
The light continues to weaken as I go, the sun giving way to the moon and the grey sky to a black blanket of night. Around here, the streetlights are poorly maintained too, some flickering or only emitting a faint glow, others not working at all.
The only saving grace appears to be the lack of cloud cover. Above, the night is clear, the stars and moon visible and providing some illumination on the streets.
Unfortunately, the market only operates after hours, necessitating this night-time venture. Still, the streets aren’t entirely absent of life, people lingering here and there, some of them perhaps searching, as I am, for the latest location of the market.
Given my lack of knowledge of the area, I have a little trouble knowing if and when I’m actually in district 5. Asking a few of the local residents turns out to be fruitless, no one willing to offer any aid to a girl like me.
Seeing this place for what it really is makes me value the work and care of Mrs Carmichael even more. And yet, so many who come through the academy will still end up around these parts, spat out here to the cesspool of the city to scratch a living in the dirt.
I wonder if I pass anyone I might have known from the past, or anyone who came before me. Over my lifetime at Carmichael’s, many have come and gone, some going on to live normal lives, others cast adrift when they’re unable to support themselves.
I think again of Drum, still so close to that particular precipice. Despite his size and strength, I doubt he’d survive long out here.
Given the looks I’m getting, I might not survive long either. As I continue to press on, asking passers by for my location, I get the distinct impression that I’m not wanted here. It’s as though they can tell I’m an outsider, drawn here for a specific purpose. I guess they have reason to be distrustful, given the treatment they’ve endured.
Still, I finally get a straight answer from an old woman, shuffling along the street, her back curved and hunched over.
“Yes…district 5,” she mutters without looking up, the warped shape of her back making such a thing impossible.
“Thank you,” I tell her as she waddles onwards in the shadows.
I swing the bag from my back and open it up, retrieving the glasses within. Setting them to my nose, the blue lenses alter the colour of my surroundings, lightening them with a sapphire tint.
And in the distance, in an empty little square nestled between derelict buildings, I see a little pattern light up brighter than everything else around it.
I rush on, growing closer, and note that the pattern is a symbol, a circular spiral similar to the badge of the city officials, or the shape of the streets of Inner Haven itself. I would consider it curious if I had any inclination to ponder it. But I don’t.
Instead, I see that the spiral shape ends in a little arrow, right in the middle of the coil, pointing off towards the east. I follow it down a narrow street, rushing towards the sight of another glowing pattern at the end. This time, the same signal appears, only with its arrows pointing north.
A further series of markings draws me further into the depths of the northern quarter, my pace growing as I follow the trail in search of the market. Soon enough, I’m being lured into eerily silent places, the old tower blocks creating menacing shadows that blot out the moonlight.
Then, I reach a final marking, this one different from the others. No arrow exists in the middle, no further directions given. I remove the glasses, casting the world back into its bitter shades of grey and black, and look upon a door.
Pressing forward, it creaks open, revealing a passageway into a low, narrow building. I move down it, and from the distant shadows a looming figure appears.
He eyes me suspiciously as I near him, dressed in the darkest of blacks and the size of a Brute. From his barrel chest, a booming voice growls.
“What’s your business here?” he asks me.
The voice sends shivers through me, such is its power, bouncing around the walls of the narrow passageway.
“I’m here to visit the black market,” I say, showing my glasses. “I’ve been following the signs.”
My explanation seems enough for him. He nods and steps to one side, then reaches out and pulls a door open. Behind, I see the form of a large open space appear, a high ceiling made from broken glass and a skeleton of metal, casting the place in a fresh dose of moonlight.
I wander in, and send my eyes over what appears to be an old train station, right in the north of the oldest part of the city. A place that once thrived with life, now overgrown and thriving for a different reason.
I see various stalls set up under the dim light, little different from those in the official markets where I reside. People in dark cloaks and jackets creep about, buying the products deemed illegal by the Court. Many, I know, will live in more pleasant areas of the city, coming here like Mrs Carmichael to satisfy their vices. Despite the un
pleasantness of getting here, I feel relieved to be amongst people again, my soaring heart rate beginning to settle as I step in and begin my new search.
This time, it’s the man named Walter that I’m looking for.
I assume that this particular search will be easier. Casting my eyes over the stalls, set up in the various nooks and crannies of the old station, I look for one selling drugs and medication. Walter, it would appear, is a proprietor of such goods, an underground apothecary who’s clearly in contact with the Nameless, if not a member himself.
Finding him, however, isn’t quite as simple as I’d hoped. When I offer his name, either to browsers or merchants, I’m greeted with a mixture of shrugging shoulders, shaking heads, and narrowing eyes. Many appear to be unaware of who he is. Others, however, merely appear suspicious of my asking, or unwilling to pass on such details.
It’s as if they consider me untrustworthy, perhaps even a spy for the council. Or worse, the Court. A girl of my age, wandering around down here when I clearly don’t know the area, is cause to be sceptical. I guess I can’t blame anyone for that, particularly given the Savants’ treatment of the Nameless and those who associate with them.
Still, I continue my search with a little more force, and eventually manage to find someone willing to help. An old shopkeeper, nestled in a dark corner, selling the whiskey Mrs Carmichael loves so dearly. He eyes me from beneath bushy black brows, maintaining a guarded gaze until the name of my guardian drops from my mouth.
“You’re one of Brenda’s kids?” he asks, eyes brightening a little.
I nod hastily.
“I assume she gets her whiskey from you?”
“Oh…yes indeed. She’s one of my top customers. Now, how can I help you, young lady?”
I let out a breath of relief, his visage growing suddenly more welcoming. Around here, it’s all about who you know. Clearly.
“I’m looking for a man named Walter,” I say. “He sells medications…drugs.” I lower my voice and lean in. “I understand he’s with the Nameless?”
The man mimics my movements, leaning in too, lowering his tone.
“Now what do you want with a man like that?”
“Information,” I say. “I just want to talk.”
“And Brenda sent you here?”
I nod. It’s half true, at least.
“Alright. I’ll help you.”
He turns his eyes to the rear of the station, where an old train sits on tracks. Outside, I note the presence of another guard, blocking a doorway in.
“That’s where you wanna be,” he tells me. “Walter operates off the main market at the back of that train. Don’t mention I told you…”
“I won’t,” I say. “And thank you.”
He nods and continues to busy himself with his stocks, before turning to another customer who slips in from the crowd.
As I move off to the rear of the station, I find the new guard eyeing me closely, just like the last. This one, however, isn’t particularly large. Instead, his piercing gaze, eyes like lights and visible from a distance, suggest he’s a Hawk. And quite possibly a hybrid himself.
To his side, the shape of a large gun, hidden beneath his cloak, makes it clear he means business. I see his hands reach down and take a firmer handle of the weapon as I approach.
“I’m here to see Walter,” I say confidently.
“He’s busy,” comes a quick, terse reply.
“No,” comes mine. His eyes narrow. “I’ve come too far today to be turned away. Tell him Brenda Carmichael sent me. Tell him it’s important.”
He considers me a second.
“Wait here.”
Turning, he opens up the door and disappears inside. A few moments later, the door opens again, and he nods me in. I enter, and look down the gloomy interior, a broken down wreck of a train, similar to the one I passed through beneath the surface of the city two nights ago.
At the end, a desk awaits, a single lamp glowing upon it. And behind it, a middle-aged, balding man with sleek eyes and an oddly friendly countenance. His face appears to carry a natural smile that seems at odds with his surroundings, and the tense nature of the situation.
“You’re here on Brenda’s behalf?” he asks, his voice bounding towards me from the other end of the train. “Come here, girl…step into the light.”
I begin moving towards him as the guard re-assumes his vigil outside.
He watches me come, eyes scanning me with interest. Then, they open a little, and he begins nodding, seemingly having drawn some conclusion from my appearance.
“So it’s you, is it,” he says. “You’re the one Brenda’s been buying my medication for…”
It’s not a question, but a statement.
Still I answer with a nod.
“Curious that you’re here. She only came a few days ago to refill her stocks. I sense this is about something else. The truth, perhaps. Is that what you’re here for?”
“I’m here for information,” I say.
“And your name?”
I hesitate for a second. He laughs, a throaty gurgle emptying into the room.
“You can trust me, girl. We’re on the same side.”
“The Nameless?” I ask. “Are you with them?”
“I fear you don’t know how this works,” comes his swift voice. “I asked you a question. It’s courtesy to answer before asking your own.”
“I…I’m sorry. My name’s Brie.”
A new smile flourishes on his crinkly face.
“Yes, I know,” he says. “Even in these dark corners, we saw the footage from the ceremony the other day. Merely tying your hair back isn’t enough to shield your look.”
“I’m not trying to shield it,” I say. “Not to you.”
“Good. Honesty is something I appreciate. Now, to your question…yes, I am with the Nameless. That is no particular secret to the people around here.”
“So you’re a…a hybrid?”
“Oh no, just a man,” he says. “The Nameless are not only hybrids. We are comprised of people from all walks of life. My path brought me here long ago. Now, I help manufacture and sell the drugs that offer people sanctuary from the Consortium’s iron rule. People like you, Brie. And yet…here you are. What is it you want to know from me?”
“Like I say, just information. I’m looking for someone…one of your people. He came to me two nights ago, set me on this track. It was him who told me what I am. And I need to know more.”
“I see. And Brenda truly knows you’re here?” he questions.
I pull out the glasses from my bag and show them to him.
“Yes, she gave me these, told me to follow the markings and find you. She trusts you, clearly, but not this boy. She wants to know if he’s with you…”
“And his name?”
I slip the glasses back into the bag.
“Zander,” I say.
Walter peers at me again, before a frown settles over his eyes. Then, as he’s about to speak, the door thrusts open behind me, and I turn to see the guard pace aboard the derelict train.
His piercing eyes are wide in the shadows, his hands now primed around his pulse rifle.
“Sir, we have to go...” he says fiercely.
“What’s going on?” asks Walter, standing.
The guard doesn’t need to answer.
Because, right on the other side of the station, a clattering sound answers for him.
Gunfire.
24
Walter shoots down the train and to the exit, dragging me along with him.
“We have to get you out of here, Brie. This isn’t safe. You should never have come.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, a panic setting in me.
“They’ve tracked the market. No one here is safe.”
Drawing a handgun from his jacket, he stops at the doorway alongside his bodyguard. The Hawk stands on the threshold, guiding his gaze to the space beyond, hastily analysing our escape routes.
St
anding behind them both, I get a few glimpses into the distance, the cavernous space now echoing with a mixture of gunfire and screaming and the hurrying of escaping bodies.
The dim hall lights occasionally with flashes as the weapons sing their song, some chattering as they spew lead bullets, others pulsing as red and blue blasts of energy rip from their rifles. A mixture of the old and the new, but all with the same deadly result.
Pain. Injury. Death. That’s all these mechanisms of war bring.
Around here, however, the people aren’t likely to stand down without a fight. By the looks of things, many of the illegal vendors are packing, along with the various guards here to protect them and the market itself. Hidden inside stalls and behind heavy jackets, more weapons are swung to join the fight.
From inside the train, I spy many people firing back towards the far end of the old station, covering their retreats. Primarily, their weapons appear to be the older variety, their magazines stocked with only a certain capacity of bullets.
The enemy, meanwhile, will be carrying their pulse rifles and handguns, their energy clips and magazines capable of firing an almost continual barrage of red and blue rounds. In a battle of attrition, there’s only one winner.
It only takes the Hawk a few seconds to quickly assess the surroundings. Walter stands to his side, holding a pulse gun of his own, looking out upon the carnage.
“Astor…we need to go!” he says to his guard, still peering out.
“Yes, sir. The north exit. Stay behind me. Both of you.”
Following Astor out of the train, we immediately turn right, moving around the edge of the interior of the cavernous old station. I spare a glance behind, peering past tall pillars and the many stalls, and see the shape of the Con-Cops advancing, several dozen of them spreading in down the long tunnel I entered through.
But they’re not alone. With them I spy others, the dark black-armoured figures of those I know to be Stalkers. They slash in, cutting a path into the hall at a devastating pace, quickly immobilising people as they attempt to flee or fight back.
