by T. C. Edge
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 spin 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.
If my instincts are right, then I might just need them later. I stop and let my body relax, recovering on a rock as I await my brother.
He takes a while to arrive.
For all I know, he could be busy, working on some other mission. Other than our meetings, his life remains secret to me. I have no idea how he spends most of his time.
At the least, he’s likely to be beyond the city, over in the little town taken up by the Nameless. Getting here will take some time, so I settle in as comfortably as I can and do my best to recover my strength.
With my eyes shut, I listen to the soothing sound of the waterfall in the distance, and try to let it calm me. I know it will fail. Nothing can keep my mind from surging right now.
Thoughts of Drum as a cold, detached Con-Cop play out before me. I imagine him having to suffer the terrible process of reconditioning, the therapies they say are almost unbearable to undergo. I’ve even heard that many die, only the strongest emerging on the other side as the slaves of the High Tower.
Drum would no doubt get through it, his mind meddled with and memories erased. Maybe I’d run into him one day, see him patrolling the streets, and go rushing up to greet him.
I’d see a stranger staring back. He wouldn’t know me, wouldn’t remember me. He’d recall nothing of his past, nothing of what he did to end up as a servant of the state.
Compared to such a fate, death would be mercy.
As my mind swirls, I hear the sound of footsteps tapping swiftly on rock. I open my eyes and sit up, and the shape of Zander materialises before me.
His words rush through him, speeding off his tongue.
“What’s happening?! You sounded worried?!”
I stand and move right up to him.
“It’s my friend, Zander. He…he needs my help.”
“What’s going on? What’s he done?”
I can barely bring myself to say it.
“He’s been taken to the holding cells. They’re going to turn him into a Con-Cop or kill him or…I can’t let it happen, I can’t!”
“It’s OK, Brie, calm your voice. Now tell me, what did he do?”
I grimace and let the words mumble out of me.
“He…he killed a man.”
Zander’s eyes change. I know what he’s thinking. Probably the same as Mrs Carmichael. That Drum needs to pay for what he did.
No…he can’t.
“It was self defence,” I add quickly. “He’s just a boy, 16 years old. He’s got Brut
e blood in him, Zander. He doesn’t know his own strength.”
“Who did he kill?” asks my brother calmly.
“A man where he works. They’ve been teasing him – he’s been teased all his life – and he must have lashed out…”
“That’s not self defence, Brie.”
“You don’t know him!” I shout. “Two of his best friends were killed in the market attack. He wasn’t himself. He’s gentle, and shy. He can’t lose his life over an accident.”
I feel I’m losing him. The doubt flows from his face like the waterfall nearby, pouring out his many reservations. He stays quiet and draws in a soft frown as I rant and rave and try to better explain myself.
When he speaks again his words aren’t what I want to hear.
“I don’t know what you want me to do,” he says. “You know we have important work to do that can’t be jeopardised. I can see what you’re thinking – that we break him out of holding.” He shakes his head firmly. “It’s too dangerous, Brie.”
I allow my face to form into a mask of disappointment and displeasure, yet my eyes still beg for him to help. I ask again, and he continues to shake his head, denying my pleas.
“I’m sorry, Brie. I know it’s hard, but your friend killed a man. I have to see the bigger picture here.”
I turn away from him, and suck in a long breath. In the back of my mind, a clarity forms, a bargaining chip he won’t be able to turn down.
I spin back, and start to nod.
“I’ll do it,” I say. “Help me save Drum…have the Nameless take him in…and I’ll do it all.”
He peers at me. His head isn’t shaking anymore.
“You mean…”
“Everything,” I say. “I’ll go to Inner Haven. I’ll marry Adryan. I’ll kill whoever you want me to kill. Just…save Drum. Please! He’s like a brother to me…”
My ringing words batter the walls. They fade and clear the path for a short silence. I look upon my twin, my hope flagging. And then, suddenly, it lives again.
He smiles. And nods.
“OK, Brie,” he says. “You’ve got yourself a deal. I’ll help you save your friend, if you help us win this war.”
Our hands swing between us and grip tight. Two shakes and they disconnect.
Then his eyes look to a far tunnel.
“Come on then, let’s get this done.”
48
I’m in deep now. There’s no way of turning back.
Take a life to save a life. It sounds like a fair trade to me.
Zander rushes forwards, taking charge now. I don’t let myself think of the future, of what I’ve committed to. I’ve made a pact with death and, one way or another, he’ll make sure I see it through.
Right now, though, there’s nothing but Drum. Locked away in a holding cell, waiting for his sentence to be passed. I can only imagine how terrified he must be, how lost.
But I’m coming, Drum. I’m coming to save you…
As we run, Zander mines for information.
“You said he’s in holding? How do you know?” he asks.
“We got a letter through to the academy. It said he was in holding on the western boundary, and his sentence would be carried out tonight.”
“Yeah, they don’t waste time processing people these days. They’ll be shipping him straight out beyond the western wall.”
“That’s where they recondition people? Outside the city?”
It dawns on me that I never knew where the Consortium’s terrible atrocities and twisted experiments were conducted. I thought it would be somewhere in Inner Haven, somewhere closer to home.
However, now that I’ve been there a few times, it makes sense that the therapies are operated elsewhere. After all, Inner Haven is hardly the place for such a thing.
Out of sight, out of mind…
“There’s a large facility ten miles or so out through the toxic woods and marshlands,” says Zander. “When people are shipped out, most don’t come back. And those that do aren’t who they were.”
“And the rest?”
“Executed,” he says. “They also take care of that dirty business over there.”
We hurry on through the underlands, Zander’s photographic memory of the place enabling us to work through the maze at speed.
“Do you know exactly where we are?” I ask him, impressed by his keen sense of direction.
“To a block or two,” he says. “I’ve spent years down in these tunnels. You get to know their secret ways after a while.”
“And they’ll take us all the way to the holding cells?”
“Close enough,” he says. “It’ll be starting to get dark up there. I’ll have to wait for the cover of night before doing anything.”
“And…how will we get in? Have you been there before?”
“Never inside, no. But I’ve seen it.” He stops suddenly, forcing me to skid right into him. I bump his body but he barely moves. “And there’s no ‘we’ when we get up there, Brie. I’ll go in alone and get your friend. You’re not ready for action, and we can’t risk you.”
“But you might need help! I want to help!”
“I know you do. But seriously, you’ll only slow me down. Security around the holding cells is always heavy. It’s better if you stay back and let me do what I do best.”
He waits for me to agree. I do so with a reluctant nod.
We continue on, through tunnels and caverns of varying sizes. I try to take it in as much as I can, let my mind soak up the route. Mostly, we move in a single direction, Zander finding his way towards openings in the walls that, at first glance, are tricky to spot.
He begins asking more questions as we go, specifically relating to Drum.
“So you say he’s got Brute blood, this Drum. Describe him.”
“Trust me, you’ll know him when you see him.”
“Humour me, Brie. The more I know, the easier it’ll be to find him.”
“Fine, you’re right. He’s…huge. Not as big as an adult Brute, but getting pretty close. Nearly 7 feet tall I’d guess, and stockily built. He’s got dark brown hair, quite short, and dark brown eyes too…”
“And you say he’s 16?”
“Yep.”
Only 16…
“OK good. He’ll be in the juvenile wing, and will have been locked in isolation. A boy that big who’s just killed a guy won’t be thrown into the communal cells. That’s good for us.”
Some good news then…
“When I get him out,” he continues, “we’ll need to ship him straight down to the underlands beneath the far northern quarter. He can join the rest of the refugees down there. Unfortunately, he’ll never be able to go home, Brie, or even step foot on the streets of Outer Haven again. If he’s as big as you say he is, he won’t be able to hide or blend in like most people can.”
“I understand. He’s used to sticking out. He won’t mind having to hide away.”
“Good.”
We turn right, the passage beginning to rise. The air grows a little less dense, faint signs of light appearing above. An orange and yellow glow to signify the setting of the sun, seeping down through the tiniest of cracks that litter the outer roads of the city.
Up above, the westernmost reaches of Outer Haven are sparsely populated. The same goes for each quarter, where the population tends to gather closer to the central and inner districts nearer to Inner Haven, like a frightened child gripping tight at the leg of their parent during a violent storm.
Only, in this case, the parent is highly abusive.
I’ve never ventured to the far border of the west, despite living in district 5 where the people pack in tight and huddle together. The further you go to the boundary, the greater the threat of the toxic mist that occasionally drifts into the city, swept in by the blowing wind.
The holding cells, I know, are in district 10, right up against the boundary wall and close to the northern quarter. There’s little life there beyond the guards that patrol the plac
e, and the constant stream of criminals sent through to have their fates determined.
Moving away from the stale, dusty air of the deep caverns of the underlands, Zander guides our path to a narrow tunnel that appears to be only navigable on our hands and knees. Flattening ourselves onto our bellies, we crawl and worm our way forward, wiggling through the tightest of gaps as the walls continue to close in.
It’s not a place for the faint of heart, and a nightmare for claustrophobics. Following Zander, I find the going easier – given the wider and more muscular size of his frame – and squeeze my way through without too much trouble.
Of course, having him guide me helps keep me at ease. Clearly, he’s used this passage before and knows it’s safe. The occasional tremble through the earth, however, has me doubting my own conviction.
“What is that?” I ask as a few pebbles are dislodged above me, raining down onto my hair and creeping down the back of my neck.
Zander stops for a moment in front of me and listens.
“Trucks,” he whispers. “The streets are right above us. We have to hurry!”
He continues at a quicker clip, dragging himself along until the passage opens out and we’re given a bit more breathing room.
“What’s going on?” I ask as we reach the end and drop into a larger cave. “Are the trucks important?”
He doesn’t appear to have time to answer. He moves straight for the far rock wall and turns his eyes up. Mine follow, and only ten or so metres away I see the foundations of a building come into view. And cut into its bottom is the outline of a trapdoor.
“Follow me,” he says, hooking his toes and fingers into holes cut into the rock and climbing straight up.
He clambers quickly and, before I’m even halfway, has the trapdoor open and is hauling his frame through. A swirl of cool air billows down through it, and a fresh swamp of dying light pours in.
A couple more metres up, and he’s reaching down, grabbing my wrist, and pulling me into an old abandoned building. He sneaks straight for a window, cracked and broken, the rest of the room filled with a few bits of moth-eaten furniture and little else.
Through the hole, the setting sun lets out a final smile before dropping out of view, casting a shadow across the street outside.
