by T. C. Edge
I tell Rhoth that I know the way now, that he no longer needs to escort me. He baulks at the suggestion.
“Oh no, girl, I need to speak with Lady Orlando. I have done my job, now it’s her turn to do hers.”
Fair enough.
Gently, rising up slowly on the breeze, the soundtrack of war once more begins to play in the background. It remains intense, something that surprises me. I’d have thought that the battles might have already been won by Cromwell’s forces, that ours would have turned to hide and retreat and wait out the success, or failure, of our terrible plot.
The noise worries me. Mostly, it’s gunfire that sounds, with the occasional blast as well, but it’s the scale of it that’s the concern.
Has it spread beyond the northern quarter? Have the other parts of the city been drawn into the conflict?
The Nameless HQ will have the answers. I gallop on now, faster and faster, my lungs burning as the Fangs rush to keep up. The din from the distant city becomes more pronounced. The flashing of lights, visible through the soft mist, seems to stretch right across the horizon.
My eyes fall on the church, hidden in the little old town that itself is well concealed here north of the city. I find myself unable to run as a normal girl now, my Dasher powers blooming as I reach the door and bang my fists against its wooden shell.
I don’t know the secret knock. I use my voice instead, calling out: “It’s me, it’s Brie!”
I call several times before I hear the scraping of bolts and the undoing of locks. As the Fangs rush towards me, a hundred or so metres away, the door swings open and a guard peers at me.
His weapon is raised. A couple of other guards, part of the sparse contingent tasked with staying here and protecting Lady Orlando, also point their weapons from the shadows.
The guard then looks over my shoulder, and sees the onrushing Fangs. They look quite formidable, pouring down the dirty street and dressed as they are.
His gun swings in their direction.
“Don’t shoot. They’re the escort!” I shout.
My voice draws another man forward. Coming from the communications room, I hear Adryan shouting: “Stand down!” as he runs towards me.
He scoops me into his arms and our lips crash together.
“We heard from Pearson,” he says hurriedly, dropping me back to the floor. “He said you’d disappeared with Rhoth and his men…”
“I had to come back,” I pant. “I had to find out what was happening. Woolf…have you found her? What’s going on in the city? Is Zander OK?”
Question after question hurry from my lips. As they do, Rhoth and his fearsome force come into view at the front of the church.
“The war’s spreading,” says Adryan. “Woolf…no, we don’t know where she is…”
“And Zander? The plot?!”
He takes my hand and draws me into the church. He leads me straight into the communications room where I’m greeted with a total silence. Lady Orlando appears among the technicians, who stare at random screens, their fingernails bitten raw.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
My voice draws Lady Orlando’s eyes. She moves as quickly as she can towards me.
“It’s happening, Brie. It’s happening now.”
My lungs empty.
One of the technicians leans in a little closer to his workstation, and a crackle of static begins to drift into the silent room.
Then, broken voices, whispers.
“Contact…three min….enem…approaching…”
The voice sounds like Beckett.
More static.
“Set timers...withdr….”
I hear heavy breathing. A few shuffles of movement. A few voices echo down distant tunnels. It sounds like they’re underground somewhere. Under the High Tower.
“Move!”
The shuffling of bodies grows louder. Between the fizzing, unpleasant sounds of the electronic static, a whooshing rush of air seems to blow, as if the strike team have activated their Dasher powers and are making their retreat.
Then, suddenly, it all goes silent as the connection is cut off. Barely breathing, I shut my eyes and try to connect via my own methods, seeking a pathway into Zander’s mind.
There is none.
I open my eyes back up and everyone looks to each other. Then, as one, they stand, and led by Adryan we begin moving back into the main hall of the church and out through the door. The guards from inside come with us, and we find Rhoth and his men waiting outside.
“Ah, the Lady of the Nameless,” begins the Fang.
“Not now,” barks Lady Orlando, her eyes turning straight to the south along with everyone else’s, to the sight of the city and its flashing lights, and the soaring shadow of the High Tower dominating it all.
“What is happening?” questions Rhoth.
No one answers. No one needs to.
All men and women stand and stare. The mist seems to clear, blown off on a heavy wind. I guide my Hawk-eyes towards the city, the upper levels of the High Tower coming into clear view before me.
My vision draws me further forward than I’ve ever been before, so close I can almost see through the many glass windows and imagine the people inside, looking down over the many districts of Outer Haven as the war continues to spread.
I imagine the hundreds, thousands of Savants in there, watching with their strange brand of impassivity. Most of them staring with detached eyes, unable to truly feel the empathy that they should.
Then I think of those like Mary and Lucy, their hearts filled with fear. Thinking of their loved ones embroiled in all of this terror. Thinking that they’re safe up there in the fortress at the core of the city, a place that could never be under threat.
How wrong they are.
They’ll look out at the streets of Inner Haven and see them unaffected. They’ll think of the thousands of City Guards and Con-Cops who are tasked with protecting them, and know that, while war may pepper the outer quarters, they’re safe right there in the city’s central hub of power.
How wrong they are.
I know it. I feel it. A sense of dread and foreboding fills me as we all stand in silence. Seconds seems to pass like minutes, dragging their heels, unwilling to be cast away for what will happen when they’re gone.
And then, miles away, a deep bellow radiates from the earth, shaking the ground beneath our feet in ripples. I stare and see the fire and smoke begin to rise up from the depths, climbing up the levels of the High Tower, shattering windows and twisting metal and stone.
From here, only the top half can be seen, standing so tall and proud above the other buildings. But you don’t need to see the foundations to know that they’re being eaten away, consumed by the devil as he breathes fire up the edifice.
The rumble grows louder. The shaking of the earth grows stronger.
We watch in silence and shame as the tower begins to move, bending to one side and then the other, trying to stay standing as the lower levels are destroyed beneath it.
Crushed and overpowered by the tens of thousands of tons of metal and glass and stone above, the explosives destroy the supports that hold the tower in place. The swaying to the left and right grows more fierce, my vision obscured by the swirling black smoke and orange tongues of fire that lick and dart like a giant serpent.
The terrible sight goes on for a time, and I think I can almost hear the screaming from here, see the bodies tossed from high windows to escape the horrifying inferno. I watch in shock at what we’ve done, wishing I never rushed back to witness such a thing.
But I did, and now I can’t tear my eyes away as the building seems to steady and stop, and the world seems to fall quiet and still once more. And then, suddenly, the summit and many dozens of levels below begin to fall, disappearing into the smoke and fire.
A final crushing quake rumbles a moment later, spreading all through the city and the world beyond. I look through the mist and see a different place now.
A
city without its beacon, without its shining light.
The skyline looks so different. A terrible, awful price to pay in the name of freedom. Thousands dead to save tens, hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions more.
An act of destruction that will never be forgotten. An act of terror to bring peace.
It’s an evil that may just save the future.
The High Tower is gone.
THE END
The Enhanced will continue in the next book, Invader.
Part VII
INVADER
170
Dust.
Smoke.
Fire.
It’s all I see. It’s all I smell.
The cityscape has changed forever, its beacon gone. The great tower that stood several times taller than any other is no more. Thousands, caught in its terrible jaws as it groaned and roared and tumbled to the earth, are dead.
But the question that now stands among us is very, very simple: is Director Cromwell?
The lull that takes place as we stand and stare at the terrible thing we’ve done seems to last an age. In reality, it’s barely a few minutes long, the stunned silence among our troop brought to a close as several technicians and soldiers return to the communications room in the church.
Work needs to be done. Lots of it. We all know that this isn’t over, not by a long shot. It may only be just beginning.
I don’t move for a little while longer, though. I find that I can’t.
Seeing the High Tower tumble and disappear out of sight beneath the distant skyline of the city is a sight that will never leave me. The noise that comes with it will live in my nightmares forever. The feeling of the shaking earth will linger in my bones.
None of us will ever be rid of this moment.
My thoughts turn to Zander. I shut my eyes for a brief moment, searching for some clarity. I picture him and try to make contact, but know I won’t be able to. But I know, too, that he’s safe, that he’s alive.
As Rhoth told me as we trekked back here from the wilds only hours ago, Zander doesn’t know how to die. And if he were dead, I’d know it.
I’d feel it.
He’s alive.
The tribal leader approaches now, stepping forward from the head of the Fangs, who look on, speechless. His gurgling, gruff voice barks from his throat.
“So this was your plan, Lady Orlando,” he says. “To destroy your own city...”
There’s a calm to his words, as if nothing would quite faze him. I turn to see the many faces of his hunters behind, however, and see that the same isn’t quite true of the rest. Most appear shocked, wide eyes unblinking and unable to quite compute what’s just happened.
Not Rhoth.
His dark brown eyes stare at Lady Orlando from their tall perch. Hers merely continue to look forward at the devastated city of Haven.
“Sometimes you need to knock something down to build it back up again,” she says coolly.
Then, without saying anything more, she turns and begins moving back to the church. Adryan looks to me and then goes straight after her, his own eyes steely and determined.
“What could bring down such a place?” muses Rhoth. “To destroy so many in one go. What great power that is…”
“Great,” I whisper. “Terrible…”
“Yes, they can be one and the same. A great victory for one side can be a terrible fate for another. This is a great victory for you.”
I don’t respond. Whether it turns out to be a great victory or not remains to be seen. And regardless, this day will never sit well with me no matter what. Yes, this is war, and I’m committed to being a soldier now. But still, I’ll always despise the need for it, for this senseless killing.
There’s no living with it. None of us involved in all of this will ever be innocent again.
None of us will ever be at peace.
I finally draw my eyes from the awful spectacle and make my way back towards the church. Best to keep busy as far as I’m concerned, and there’s no doubting that, even after the last few days I’ve had, there’s going to be no let-up.
Rhoth follows me, calling out an order for his men to stay outside. I get the impression that he’s keen to discuss the terms of his arrangement with Lady Orlando now that’s he’s completed his job.
Get our people to the mines in one – well, not quite one – piece, and she’ll help him crush his enemies in return. In all honesty, when that happens I might just raise my hand and volunteer for the job if it means getting the opportunity to take down Bjorn.
The giant leader of the Bear-Skins has it all coming. The way he looked at me, spoke about me…oh he has it coming all right.
I enter the church with Rhoth at my back and head immediately to the comms room. It’s full to bursting and I can barely make my way inside. A few crackling words appear to have made it down one of the lines, and the voice of Beckett, the leader of the strike team, filters into the room.
“Retreating. One man down. Another injured. Heading northwards to the tunnel. Will be with you shortly.”
That’s all we get. The communicator clicks off, and the room lets out a collective sigh of relief. The look on the face of Lady Orlando makes it clear that the set protocol is being followed, and everything is going to plan.
Lady Orlando speaks now as the room falls silent.
“OK, everyone back to work. Get in contact with whoever you can across Outer Haven. We need confirmation that Artemis and the rest of the Consortium were in the High Tower when it went down. Come to me with any reports. I will be in my room.”
She turns towards the exit. Rhoth blocks her path.
“We need to speak, Lady Orlando. I have kept my end of the bargain. Now it’s you…”
“Yes, Rhoth, I know,” she says curtly. “We will speak, but not now. I think it’s clear that I have my hands full with my own war to fight. We will get to yours when we can.”
She brushes past him, flanked by a couple of suspicious looking guards who eye Rhoth with the expected distrust. Her manner of speaking to him was rather dismissive, albeit understandable.
I see his eyes flickering as he considers going after her. A gentle hand from me glides up and holds him back.
“Rhoth, let the dust settle. She’ll hold up her end of the bargain, I promise you that.”
“Only if you people survive,” he grunts. “You’re no good to me dead. And by the sounds of it, the fighting in the big city isn’t going to stop any time soon.”
“That’s the bargain you struck,” I inform him. “And in any case, none of your men were even hurt escorting our people to the mines. You’re getting a good deal here. I wouldn’t push it, not now.”
“Fine,” he grumbles after a few seconds. “But I’m not going anywhere until I get what I want.”
He swivels and heads back outside. I consider that to be the best of both worlds for us. Having them here as extra protection isn’t the worst thing right now.
I turn my attention straight to Lady Orlando, though, walking swiftly down the centre of the ancient church and towards the stage. She climbs up the short flight of stairs on old legs as a soldier darts for the first door towards her quarters and opens it up.
I reach her as she enters.
“Lady Orlando,” I say, grabbing her attention. “What about Commander Burns? He knew about all of this. He was out of the High Tower, wasn’t he?”
“If everything went well, yes,” she says. “Follow me in, Brie.” She looks to the guards. “You two, stay outside.”
They take positions outside the door as I follow her into her chambers at the end of the short corridor. The fire that always seems to be burning has gone out. The room has gone cold, both in warmth and colour.
She quickly heads for the little communication device that’s been set up on the small table next to the now dormant fire. A few security procedures and passcodes are input before she holds the device to her mouth. It makes some vague attempt to make contact before ev
entually failing.
A frown drops over her wrinkled eyes and she plants the communicator back down.
“No contact with Burns?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“What was the protocol for him?” I continue. “I assume he knew all about the timings of the attack?”
“He was informed, of course. Leyton is an important piece of this puzzle. He will be critical in helping to bring peace to the city, someone the people know and who can bring everyone together. He has been kept up to date with everything until now.”
“But you’re worried,” I assert, reading her face and its admittedly muted ability to fully emote. “You think he might have been caught in the blast?”
“There were lots of things we couldn’t quite control, variables if you will,” she says. “One was how easy it would be for Leyton to get out of the High Tower without drawing suspicion. You are well aware, Brie, that the Consortium very rarely leave it, and at such a time of war, with the place so heavily defended above ground, him leaving may have been difficult.”
“So he might be dead?”
“He might,” she says. “We have no answers yet, but will need to act fast. The protocol will be followed as closely as we can manage it. Yet we are relying on luck, somewhat…”
She turns her eyes again to the communicator, and attempts to make contact once more. She fails. A flicker of disappointment lurches across her face, mingled with a sprinkling of worry. She’s strained, and seemingly growing older by the day.
Her tonic, like Mrs Carmichael’s, is whiskey. She pours a glass and takes a seat. I’m offered one too but decline.
“So, what exactly is the plan now?” I query.
Her greying eyes switch from her whiskey glass to me.
“Take the city,” she says. “There will be chaos now, utter chaos. It’s in such a state that we will gather our forces and take control of Inner Haven.”
I take a gulp of air at the thought. The concept of marching on the city, invading the very place I once lived, is hard to get my head around. And then there’s the perpetual concern I have for those still at the academy, locked away there as the fighting continues.
