by T. C. Edge
The same goes for each group of girls, spread around the room. All holding our glasses, we stand in silence as our chaperones perform one final inspection.
“Good luck,” says Sophie, standing before us like a mother sending her children off for their first day of school. The pride exuding from her is palpable, if a little misplaced.
For my part at least.
Her eyes scan us, one by one, just to make sure all our dresses are in order, and our makeup hasn’t smudged or hair fallen out of place.
Given my experience over the last couple of days, I expect her to come forward and completely rearrange me. As it is, her eyes pass over me as they do the rest, before she nods, satisfied that we’re all ready to go.
Then, behind her, a little horn sounds, calling for all the chaperones to depart the hall.
“Good luck!” she whispers again. “Knock them dead!”
Then, with a hasty step, she scuttles off towards the exit with the rest of the escorts.
A short silence follows, the room swallowed up by a deathly hush. My eyes scan the room and see no movement at all, but for the occasional shuffle of nervous feet. Standing third in line of our group – our group is numbered 81 to 100 – I turn my eyes to the door and wait. All eyes linger on the same spot.
By now, we all know the procedure. It’s about to go down.
Above the door, a large clock ticks silently. It read 6.59, and 34 seconds.
We watch the second hand tick round, inching northwards towards the summit. Time-keeping here is so precise. They’ll surely enter on the dot.
When the second hand ticks past 56, and 57, and 58, and 59, we collectively hold our breath and a deeper silence falls. Then, as expected, as the minute and second hands move together to point due north, and the time hits 7PM, the door creaks open once more.
And through they come.
Each wears a black suit, and each holds a glass of champagne in their hands as we do. All of them have short hair, neatly cut, ranging in colour but all styled the same. They march through the passage like a troop of soldiers, spreading into the hall and stopping in the centre, where they line up the same as us, looking out at the many groups of gathered girls.
I conduct a quick count, and note that there are far fewer of them than there are us. Perhaps a scale of 3 to 1 in our favour. Although, such odds are not in our favour at all.
It’s one of the few things Sophie neglected to tell us. Only a third of the girls here are likely to come away with a man. The rest are going to be bitterly disappointed.
It’s not a competition, she’d said. I doubt the girls here are seeing it like that, judging by the looks in their eyes.
As the black-suited men come in, I note a few others at the back, half a dozen or so, hidden in their midst. They stick out like trees in the empty desert, dressed in the same suits and yet conspicuous for the different colours they adopt.
Not black, but light grey.
They must be Savants.
Others stick out for very different reasons. The towering and hulking figures of Brutes, looking so odd dressed up so fine, dot the throng, drawing the eyes of many of the girls. For sheer spectacle, they’re quite something to look at.
I’d prefer to draw the line at just looking, though.
Others carry the intense countenance so common among Hawks, eyes already searching the faces of the surrounding girls closely for features they might find attractive.
Then there are Bats, and Sniffers, utilising their own super-senses to determine who they might wish to greet first. The former will be able to hear heartbeats, the rise and fall of a girl’s breathing as they look upon them. The latter will indulge in the many personal scents and odours in the room, zeroing in on those they find most appealing.
The more fidgety must be Dashers. I suppose their abilities will allow them to greet more girls more quickly, speedily working the room before the hourglass runs dry.
Quite what appeal the Savants bring, however, is beyond me. Prestige, I suppose, and nothing more. For many of these girls – perhaps even most – that might just be the most critical factor of all. There can be no higher calling for one of these ‘ladies of the Unenhanced’ than creating little Savant children.
A loveless union, no doubt, but a prestigious one. For the girls, at least.
It takes a few minutes for all the men to enter the hall, and wander towards the centre. Once they’ve all gathered, the doors close once again and, as one, the Enhanced all raise their champagne glasses to the air.
With their glasses aloft, they dip their heads in respect, before each taking a sip. That’s our cue to do the same. All around the room, the hundreds of girls follow, raising their glasses, bowing their heads reverently, and then bringing the flutes to their lips.
I taste the cool, fizzy liquid, and consider it far nicer than the whiskey I’ve been forced to drink recently. Then, lowering my glass back down along with all the rest, we set our eyes back on the men before us, and wait.
Procedure has been followed. All traditions have been observed.
And now the games begin.
34
The men begin to move.
Within moments, the room has altered its shape, the centre now emptying once again and the Enhanced spreading out like water from a burst dam. Many, it would appear, have already chosen their primary targets. They waste little time in making their introductions.
With my heart threatening to leap from my mouth, I wait for the deluge of men to advance on our group. I count at least a dozen of them coming straight for us, and a number of them have eyes on me. By the looks of things, Sophie wasn’t lying when she told me I was the talk of the town.
Dressed and made up much the same as I was during the ceremony, I’m fairly easy to spot. The first to swoop, perhaps unsurprisingly, is a Dasher, utilising his speed to dance his way to the front of the queue.
As I’ve been taught, etiquette states that only one Enhanced can talk to a girl at a time. He’ll be given a few minutes to speak with me before another man gets his turn.
As he bears down on me, I note his youthful visage. He looks to be younger than I am, an excitable child so thrilled to be surrounded by such a bevy of beauties.
Like a puppy he comes bounding, skipping forward and arriving in front of me in a flash. I suspect that he’s overstepping the mark, his excitement getting the better of him. The exuberance of youth, I suppose, is something even the Savants can’t stifle completely.
With a warm smile he approaches, stopping a metre or so away and performing a little bow of respect. I follow, mimicking his action as the official greeting protocol demands.
Next, I’m supposed to wait for him to speak first. I don’t have to wait long.
“Your name’s Brie, isn’t it?” he asks fervently, his voice exploding out of him.
“I am,” I answer calmly.
“I knew it was you! I saw you at the ceremony. My friends are going to love this. Is your friend here too? What was her name? Um…no, don’t tell me, I’ll remember. Hmmmmm….what was it? Oh yeah, Tess. That’s it, right? Tess?”
His words tumble so fast I can barely hear what he’s saying. I know that Dashers have a tendency to talk quickly sometimes, but this is something else. Surely a mixture of his bloodline and his excitement? The kid probably has ADHD too.
Imagine that, a Dasher with ADHD. I feel for the girl who ends up with him.
Of course, it won’t be me. That honour will go to the mystery man known as Adryan, who must be somewhere in this room. Foolishly, with everything going down so quickly, I’d forgotten to ask either Lady Orlando or Zander what sort of Enhanced he was. I can only hope he isn’t like this particular boy.
“So…I’m right, yeah?” comes the boy’s voice once more.
He’d barely given me a split second to answer. The world must run in slow motion to him.
“Yes, that’s right,” I tell him.
He beams.
“I knew it
. So, she’s here?”
I shake my head.
“Unfortunately not.”
His eyebrows do a little dance of disappointment.
“Aw, you’re kidding. I liked her a lot.”
I don’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved. Clearly, he only came over to me to ask about Tess.
“Well, you should have invited her,” I suggest. “I’ve heard that an invite from an Enhanced means a girl can forgo the scouting and testing process?”
“Sometimes,” he says, shrugging. “Depends on what rank you are.”
“Rank?”
“Yeah, rank. Like, I’m a Dasher, and I’m only 18…”
Ah, so he’s 18. He seems younger really.
“I live on the Outer Spiral,” he continues. “And I don’t work for the City Guard or anything. I’ve got a boring job really,” he chuckles. “So yeah, I’m quite a low rank. I can’t invite anyone here.”
He seems quite jovial about it all. Clearly, he has no problem talking himself down. It’s refreshing to see, actually. Other than his super-speed, this kid’s just like any of them over at the academy.
I guess he was just born on the right side of the tracks. Or wrong, depending on how you look at it…
“Well, maybe Tess will be scouted one day,” I say. “She’s clever, and I know she wants to marry up. Hopefully you’ll meet her next time.”
“Yeah, hopefully. Unless I find someone else tonight!”
Again, I feel a pinch of pity for whoever that might be.
Then again, nothing says you have to court an Enhanced if you don’t want to. If one choses you above all others, and has designs to make you his wife, then there’s no obligation to follow through.
That said, such a thing would be extremely rare. For a regular Unenhanced girl to deny the advances of an Enhanced would be considered hugely disrespectful. Every girl who is scouted is fully aware that they have little choice in the matter should they be chosen.
As the boy begins to chatter away again, a finger the size of a toddler’s arm taps him on the shoulder.
“Time’s up, boy,” comes a deep and resounding voice.
So caught up was I with the young Dasher that I’d barely paid any attention to the man approaching behind him. As my eyes rear up, however, they take in a colossal form, a vast shadow filling the space at his back.
The Dasher turns, and his eyes greet the barrel chest of a Brute, one who appears to be at least twice his age and several times his size. The boy’s eyes arch up, and with a little nervous squeak he says: “Sure, sir, she’s all yours…”
With a sheepish glance back at me, he scoots away in search of an easier prize.
The Brute takes a step forward. The ground seems to shake. As is the custom, he performs the expected head bow, his gigantic dome dipping and rising back up to a height of what must be well over 8 feet.
I do the same, and then wait for him to speak.
When he does, his breath comes at me like a tornado.
“Brie Melrose,” he says, with a great deal more composure than my last suitor. “We’ve met once before. Or, well, met isn’t really true. We’ve been in close contact.”
“Erm…really?” I say uneasily.
“Yes. It’s no wonder you don’t remember. I was wearing a helmet and my uniform at the time. I’m a member of the City Guard. I was there the day you performed so admirably after the attack at Culture Corner. Might I say, bravo. It took courage to act as you did.”
He reaches forward with his champagne glass, which appears so small between his meaty fingers.
I do the same, and clink my glass to his, before taking a sip.
“Thank you for your kind words,” I say, gazing skyward to his face. “I was just happy to help.”
A rush of concern sweeps through me. Is this Adryan? Is this the man I’m here to meet?
The thought is quickly dismissed as the Brute speaks again.
“Well, I just wanted to come and say hello,” he booms. “I have no designs on you, don’t worry…”
“Worry?”
His mouth builds into a smile, one which reminds me of Drum. Although this man’s dimensions are on a whole other level.
“Yes. I’m well aware that my order of Enhanced isn’t the most appealing to you ladies. I’ve been to these balls several times before with little luck, and have no interest in courting a girl unless she reciprocates.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “I’m sure there are lots of girls here who’d like to court you?”
“Don’t be so sure, young lady. Most tend to be drawn to the Hawks,” he sighs. “No matter. I’ve dedicated my life to other pursuits, and am proud to represent the City Guard. Your courage was a reminder to me that we aren’t so different after all, Miss Melrose. I haven’t been to a bachelor ball in many years, and came tonight because I heard you were coming, and I wanted to meet you…”
“Meet me?”
He nods respectfully once more.
“Don’t be so surprised, Miss Melrose,” he says, attempting to lower his thunderous voice. “We’re not all like the Savants…”
I frown at him, but he merely smiles once more.
“Good evening,” he says again. “I hope you find who, or what, you’re looking for.”
He turns and wanders off, blending as best he can back into the crowd. And with his mountainous frame removed from my view, a clearer picture of the hall appears before me.
A sigh escapes my lips. A queue appears to have formed.
Several men line up, one behind the other, waiting to greet me. Frankly, it baffles me as to why I’m so popular.
As the next hour or so progresses, it becomes clear why I’m being sought out. Mostly, I’m asked about my time in Inner Haven the last time I came here, and whether I heard anything from Deputy Burns when the Nameless took over the video feed.
I play dumb when queried on such things, much to their disappointment. Upon hearing I have nothing to share, most quickly abandon their time with me. And here was me thinking rumour and gossip were frowned upon around here.
Apparently not…
The night is exhausting. I start spending more and more time looking at the clock, wondering where the hell this Adryan is.
Has he not shown up? Does he actually know which one I am among all these blue-dressed clones?
The more men I meet, and the more champagne I’m required to sip through little toasts, the more my head begins to throb. With the hall so brightly lit, and with a constant smile forced onto my face, my eyes start to ache too. I begin to grow warm, sweat building on my forehead and cutting streaks through my makeup.
I can only imagine that I’m starting to look a mess. Hair growing damp and lank, makeup running, eyes squinting and posture drooping. The only benefit is that the queue before me begins to thin, several men appearing put off by my increasing dishevelment.
Currently, I count three in line. Only half an hour ago, the queue was double that.
As the latest man steps forward, however, a smooth voice issues from the side.
“I think I’ll take this one.”
Through my aching, squinting eyes, I see a form drift casually from the crowd. He moves to the man before me, who immediately dips his head in reverence and steps back.
“Yes, of course, sir,” he says. “Take as much time as you desire.”
The new entrant takes the man’s place. It’s obvious why.
He’s wearing light grey.
He’s a Savant.
Despite my aversion to his kind, I instinctively straighten my posture and widen my eyes. The light burns, but I try not to show any discomfort.
Through my partially blurred vision, his face comes into view. There’s a smile on it, his lips shut tight and cool grey-blue eyes staring right at me. He’s clearly well versed in attempting human emotion. Unlike most Savants, he’s able to mimic us quite well.
The customs are observed. Nods and little bows and all th
at stuff I’m growing very bored of. Then, I stand as straight as I can and wait for him to address me. He takes a moment to examine me first, his icy grey-blue eyes paying particular attention to mine, burning under the dual attack of the lights and his penetrating gaze. Then, he speaks.
“Good evening, Brie,” he says, his voice also a little less monotone than most of his kind. “Please accept my apology for barging in like this.”
“That’s your prerogative, or so I understand,” I respond flatly.
If he can mimic us, then I can mimic them. But then, part of me is ‘them’. God this is so confusing…
“Indeed it is. But I need to apologise for something more.”
He takes a little step towards me. No one else has come so close. Another right of the Savants, perhaps, that the rest don’t enjoy.
Closing the gap, his words tighten too. The room is loud and full of chattering. His voice becomes a whisper, slipping through the din and into my ears.
“I wanted to speak to you earlier, but I thought it best not to rush straight in. Better to make things look natural.”
“Sorry. I’m lost.”
I ease a little away from him to get a better look at his face. There’s the tiniest glint shining in his eyes, hidden behind layers of ice. Like the sun rising over the frozen tundra, bringing light to an otherwise desolate world.
“That’s OK, and highly understandable,” he says quietly. “We have much to discuss, although this really isn’t the place.” His eyes narrow and his head tilts just slightly to one side. “I suspect, given your expression, that you weren’t expecting a man like me?”
“I…I…”
“Yes indeed, that confirms it. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Brie. I trust you’ve been told my name at least?”
“Adryan,” I whisper.
His expression undulates. Not quite as flat as other Savants. Frosty and largely cast from stone, yes, but less rigid than any other Savants I’ve seen.
“Good, well that’s a start. Now, I won’t stay with you too long this evening. Such a thing is unbecoming and unfair to the rest. I suspect that several men will wish to court you. But that won’t be a problem…”
