by T. C. Edge
“You’re heading back?” he asks.
“I’m taking Brie back. I’ll return soon enough.”
Rycard’s eyes are hooded, cast with fear. I know he’s thinking of his wife and child.
“Are the people going to be taken to the mines?” he asks.
Zander nods.
“We have no choice now. The underlands are mobilising.”
Rycard’s eyes turn to mine.
“Make sure they’re OK, can you do that for me, Brie?” he asks. “You go with them. Protect Sophie. Protect Maddox.”
He smiles weakly. And I return the look. Then we embrace, our bodies tightening briefly before releasing.
And just as we step through the door, he says one final thing.
“Oh, and Brie,” he says. I turn. “Protect yourself too. Be safe out there.”
I stand tall, hiding the fear brewing inside, and merely say: “I will.”
152
Part of me is happy to be alongside my brother, and him alone. The remainder is terrified to be entering onto the streets without the rest of the gang.
What they did to that force of Stalkers and City Guards is enough to persuade me that they can do just about anything. Sure, they had the element of surprise on their side, and managed to trap most of their foes in the blocked tunnel, but still, it’s pretty impressive that they dispatched so many with the loss of only one life.
Then again, losing the life of a powerful hybrid like Hilton is worse for us than it would if the same happened to Cromwell. His most powerful allies outnumber ours by an alarming factor, and it’s clear that his most potent weapons are right there alongside him at a time like this.
As we reach the exit to the factory and creep through the still hidden door, Zander performs his checks to ensure that the coast is clear. His eyes turn down the alley and to the skies, seeking out surveillance drones, before he leads me straight on and into the midst of the industrial region.
It appears I was right about the workday being suspended. From the many factories, plants, and warehouses that spread across the vast area, a sea of workers storm, returning to the safety of their homes under the shadow of the growing war.
A war that for so long has, in fact, been in the shadows.
No longer.
From the depths of the eastern, western, and southern quarters, the sounds of battle will be heard. They just have to hope that the fighting is contained to the north, something that I myself am currently praying for given I care about so many in the west.
It’s easy enough staying hidden as we venture away from the factory. Once more, it’s crucial that we do so without being seen. We move in silence, using our Dasher powers to work our way further to the northeast, growing alarmingly close to the perimeter wall as it appears in the distance against the backdrop of the darkening skies.
The hour isn’t yet late. It’s only creeping towards the latter stages of the afternoon. Yet above us, the skies have been filled with the fumes of war, adding to the endless pollutants being coughed into the sky from the chugging factories and plants.
It creates a dark grey blanket that settles below the clouds, layer upon layer of dense and putrid air blocking off any suggestion of sunlight. Given our mission, such a thing is welcome, our forms hidden under the cover of the slate grey skies.
No one sees us. Zander makes sure of that. Here, the world is quiet, so few workers remaining who might identify us should they be unfortunate enough to catch us unawares.
Buzzing above the tops of the buildings, however, the occasional drone emerges from the smog. Whether security, surveillance, or even just errant worker or postal drones going about their operations, Zander takes no chances.
His weapon rises. He pulls the trigger. The machine hits the earth with a metallic clang.
I even get in on the act. Spotting one before my brother, I instinctively zap it from the sky using my pulse rifle. The blue flame connects with its flank, burning it away, and the metal insect spirals away into the roof of a nearby warehouse.
Zander seems impressed. And I realise then, if I didn’t know it already, that his approval is something I crave, particularly in this theatre of war.
Still, he does suggest one thing, taking possession of my rifle and switching the mode to ‘immobilise’. It’s the same one he’s used regularly to kill the engines of cars and knock drones from the air.
“Takes less charge,” he says. “And it’s less conspicuous.”
I suppose I have plenty to learn. I barely even know how to handle a weapon.
The going, despite our abilities, is fairly slow. That’s through necessity rather than desire. We take a wide angle to the northwest, nearing the perimeter and its force of guards, before circling back around until we’re edging closer to one of the few entrances that hasn’t yet been discovered.
Our pace grows even slower the further towards the fighting we travel. Down long streets and over the tops of distant roofs, the flow of fire appears in the mist. And from the same directions, the clattering of gunfire echoes continuously, telling of the battle that rages on.
“Is it our men?” I ask. “Defending the tunnels?”
“Guerrilla tactics,” says Zander. “That’s the protocol in such situations.”
“Such situations? You mean, you thought a load of tunnels might be attacked at once?”
“We had plans in place for almost every eventuality. This one wasn’t considered that likely. We didn’t expect a coordinated assault like this.”
“And so…guerrilla tactics? That means?”
“It means we have to be clever,” he says, narrow eyes searching for our next route ahead. “They outnumber us by a large degree. The plan if any single tunnel was breached was to first blow the tunnel, then send some of our soldiers to the surface and attack the fringes as they tried to tunnel through the blockage. That would slow them and give our people time to mobilise and escape.”
“And now that several are being attacked?”
“It just means that our men will be more widely dispersed. They’ll still be running interference, and trying to slow Cromwell’s men down, but it won’t be as effective. He’ll break through sooner. And now, we have to try to spare some soldiers to escort the people away to the mines.”
“And…is that where I come in?” I ask.
He nods solemnly. In some ways, being part of the assault team to blow the High Tower would be safer. I know now just how dangerous it is out there…
“But not you, obviously,” I say. “They need you for the mission.”
“Unfortunately, our hand has been forced. We were hoping that we’d be able to get the job done before any evacuation was required. It’s weird. Cromwell’s played everything out so smoothly and slowly over the months and years. And now, after everything, it’s all coming down to this. Minutes count.”
“Then I won’t waste any more of them with questions,” I say.
On we go under the darkening skies. We have no choice but to creep close to the warzone, where the concentrations of our enemies are greatest, and the skies fill with the drones that act as lookouts.
On several more occasions, we’re forced to down a few, disabling them in flight as they whip past us from nowhere and get ready to give away our position.
Before they can, they hit the earth. One, then two, then three more come and go.
But it’s the fourth that does the damage.
We catch it a split second too late, the gunfire and explosions and song of war distracting us as the drone hovers quietly in the broken façade of a high window, it’s usually audible engine hidden by the ambient sounds of the rampaging city.
Zander’s rifle rises and cuts it down, but only after it’s issued out a warning to a nearby patrol that we were hoping to avoid.
My brother turns to me.
“We have to take them out,” he says. “We can’t be followed.”
They’re already close. I hear voices and footsteps stamping down t
he street. Behind us through a short alley, the battle for a tunnel is spilling out. We can’t go that way.
We have no option but to engage.
Zander snatches my rifle again, and flicks the setting. I watch and take note.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. “Tired?”
He’s inquiring about my Dasher powers. They’ve been used sparingly, and so I’m in good order.
I shake my head and steel my eyes. Mine and his are like reflections. Hazel, shining in the dim light, ready to do what we must.
“I feel strong,” I say.
We move straight to the end of the alley. Zander turns his eyes down the street, glancing out in the blink of an eye before withdrawing. It’s not enough for the patrol to see him. But it’s plenty for him to see them.
“Twelve,” he says. “Con-Cops.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief. Twelve of anything else might be too much for me. City Guard, with a range of different Enhanced, would surely take me down. Stalkers would see to both of our ends.
I know we got lucky. We needed to get lucky.
“OK, sis,” says Zander. “They’re spreading, taking positions. Best we go now while they’re all together. Fire and displace. Use your Dasher powers and Hawk-eyes to aim. You ready?”
My lungs fill up with putrid air. I nod nervously.
“Then let’s go. On me. Three, two, one…”
He doesn’t give me a chance to overthink, something I’m prone to do. He forces me to act on instinct, a state in which I tend to excel. And as he surges down the alley and appears before the patrol, I follow right behind.
I’m greeted by a sight of identical men and women, separated only by height and frame, forced into this little battalion to battle their old brethren. I see behind the masks their eyes, all dead, showing little surprise and no fear at all.
Like robots, they too act without thinking. It’s not instinct, but merely the programming they’ve been given.
See enemy. Aim and shoot.
The order spreads through them all like wildfire, and as one their weapons lift.
But they’re not as fast as us.
Zander’s gun begins to blare and mine follows only a second later. We dash into the open street, sending blue fire their way.
They don’t take cover or try to shield themselves. They don’t act like a normal human might. They act as they’ve been conditioned to, programmed to, their minds wired to follow a specific course in any specific situation.
And here, right now, the orders are clear: kill as many as you can, even if you have to die. Don’t defend yourself in place of getting a shot off.
It’s bizarre to see. As the first couple go down, their chests burned through by sizzling energy, the others don’t run or try to hide. They don’t seek cover. They don’t look at their allies, dropping dead to the floor, their bodies mutilated.
They don’t fear death at all. They can do nothing but adhere to the terrible wiring in their brains.
So they stand, and return fire, their regular guns spitting out a swarm of bullets. And as they do, our guns fire again, and we displace, swishing out of sight and to the other side of the street.
Two more fall as we arrive. The remaining eight have no idea where we are. Only when they see the swirling mist fluttering in our wake, and follow it to our new location, do they begin firing once more.
The routine is repeated. As the bullets start to zip, appearing to slow as my Dasher powers vibrate and rumble, we fire back once again and displace.
This time, we appear behind them. Now there are only six.
We circle them for fun. It isn’t a challenge at all. Three more times we shoot and run, and each time they merely stand there and try to find us. By the time they do, their bodies have been cut through.
And in only a minute or so, the patrol of twelve Con-Cops lie in a sad heap of flesh in the earth.
And sad it is. I give little thought to it, given our current predicament, but can’t help but shake my head and grit my teeth at the futility of it all.
As far as I know, these men and women were only recently turned into these mindless creatures. Drawn in by Cromwell’s lies and promises, seeking only to rid themselves of their fear and find some peace and solace in a world they fear.
They might have been husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. Normal people turned to nothing but canon fodder. Uncaringly twisted and emptied of all that they once were.
And looking at them, I realise that that’s exactly true. I didn’t kill them. We didn’t kill them. Cromwell did.
They were already dead.
153
Our encounter with the Con-Cops leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It’s the taste of unnecessary death. The taste of war.
Zander, having seen and done it all a hundred times over, keeps us moving. For another couple of nervy blocks we creep away from the nearest batch of fighting, and I play our own little battle out in my mind a couple more times.
And each time, an increasing numbness engulfs me. It won’t be long before I’m able to shoot down my enemies with no feeling at all.
I know that fighting the City Guard will, above all, be the hardest to reconcile. My conclusion about the Con-Cops already being dead is a favourable one for my psyche. And if ever I’m face to face with a Stalker, similarly detached and bred only to kill, I won’t think twice about pulling the trigger.
But the City Guard are different. They remain human, regular men and women for the most part, perhaps questioning their place among all of this. We have enough Enhanced within our own ranks to show that many aren’t exactly fond of Cromwell’s doctrines, and there are many others within Inner Haven right now who sympathise with our cause.
Yet, out here, war doesn’t judge. If I’m being attacked by a force of City Guards, I’m going to have to act accordingly.
It isn’t my choice to make, I tell myself. This is just war.
I say it again and again as we move through the city, rewiring my own brain, using my own powers as a Mind-Manipulator to shut off that sensitive, moral side of me, hide it somewhere in the background until all of this is over.
Because I can’t have any more slip-ups. I can’t take a moment to react when faced with the next threat. If I do, it could be my brother’s life, or someone else’s life at stake. And it will certainly be my own.
As we go, and I work to forge new pathways in my mind, I begin to step aboard the same train the Nameless are riding. I start to imagine that, with everything I’ve seen, and everything I’ve done, toppling the High Tower might just be the only course of action.
And the next time I see Beckett – if I ever see him again – I’ll drop my head in deference and apologise.
“You were right,” I’ll admit. “I was wrong.”
I need to toughen up.
The sky continues to blacken. All over the northern quarter now, with the onset of night adding to the gloom, the fires and flares and flashing weapons are more readily visible.
The entire city is like a lights show, the horizon a mesh of colour. For miles across the northern quarter the war has spread, moving even beyond the tunnels that command Cromwell’s attention.
Now, others appear to have joined: local people picking up arms, fighting for their homes; Disposables realising that they have a better chance of survival if they add themselves to the fray.
Scavenging for weapons, prising them from the lifeless fingers of the dead, the forgotten residents of this dark corner of the city are beginning to rise up.
But our path is beyond it.
Finally we manage to reach a rare passage known only to a few. Like all the others, it’s well concealed, hidden in the depths of an old building through a network of secret doors and passages that leads into the underground. Into the old subway that used to ferry the residents of an ancient city around below the surface.
We enter the underlands and block ourselves off from the war, and Zander tells me that o
nly a handful of people have ever known of this exit.
A private passage intended for only the most secretive of business, it leads out beyond the city via a different route, not merging in with the main network of caves and caverns where the refugees live.
Knowing this, I allow myself the luxury of breathing regularly for the first time in a while.
We’re safe, for now. It won’t last long.
We walk for some time, moving straight to the north, the fighting above growing less distinct until it disappears completely. Only after we’ve covered several miles does Zander tell me we’re about to go topside again.
And when we do, up we go, climbing a ladder cut into the side of the rock wall and emerging into the silent night in a little patch of woodland miles away from the city limits.
I gulp in a breath and get no respite. From the putrid fumes of smoke and smog in the city, we enter a world of toxic mist and poison. Yet it’s not dense, and it’s not fatal. Not here.
“Where are we?” I ask.
Zander answers by way of leading me to the edge of the little wood, where the city lights glow in the far distance. As always, the High Tower shines brightest, but this time there’s a pool of light beneath it. Red and orange and occasionally blue; the paradoxically beautiful palette of war.
Then I look the other way, and see the shadows of buildings not too far off. Skeletons mostly, but dominated by the spiral of the church that marks the HQ of the rebels.
“We’re home,” says Zander.
There’s no need to creep any longer. We jog out into the night, crossing fields peppered with ruins and stumps of old trees, until we reach the back of the church in that little ancient town.
Working around to the front, Zander performs the secret knock and the door cracks open. The guard called Burton opens up. Given his position as gatekeeper, I assume he’s an elite hybrid too.
Like Cromwell, the Nameless probably have several of their finest guarding Lady Orlando.
The interior is buzzing. People chatter and move from place to place. There’s a mixture of what appears to be battle-hardened warriors and the older luminaries and advisors who serve the rebels. I assume the former work as the latters’ bodyguards.
