by T. C. Edge
“With your permission, Lady Orlando, I’d like to go back into the city and take care of my friends,” I say.
I stiffen my pose and stand up straight, my request formal.
She inspects me briefly before turning her eyes away once more. She has a habit of doing so, of never looking at me in the eye for too long. I assume it’s a safeguard she developed to prevent her mind from being read. When being asked of something by a Mind-Manipulator like me, I imagine it’s also as a means to ensure I don’t influence her decision somehow too.
I won’t.
Breaking into someone’s thoughts without permission is something I need to rein in. Earlier today, I did the same to West and saw the terrible things that have happened to him, the perilous life he left behind half a world away from here.
I refuse to use my gifts unless the situation is warranted.
“I suggest patience, Brie,” she tells me, looking to the window across the room. There’s little to see out there now, the cloud of war too thick to see through, and the light starting to fade as the onset of night approaches. “I will permit you to go, but not right now. You’ve been through a lot, and need to rest. Let’s wait to see how the land lies across the city before we make any decisions.”
Her answer is direct, assertive, and typically well thought out. I can’t deny the logic, and so agree.
That’s what soldiers do. They follow orders.
“Yes, Lady Orlando. Is there anything you wish of me now?”
“Rest,” she says. “Your brother will be here very soon. Then we regroup, and go again…”
I leave the room and, while ordered to rest, don’t exactly follow her advice. I feel as if I have a duty now to Rhoth and his men, and so quickly move outside to assure him that Lady Orlando’s bargain will be kept.
He takes some convincing, a hangover of recent run-ins the two groups have had. We may have worked together in recent days, but he still holds a great deal of distrust for anyone who hails from ‘the big city with all the lights’.
I pacify him, though, and then go back inside. Adryan is at his post in the comms room, gathering intel from the technicians. Some appear to be struggling to get into contact with our men on the ground. Others have heard reports of a lull in the fighting after the destruction of the High Tower.
“It sounds like they’ve lost their leaders,” a spectacled man says. “We’re hearing that some of the Con-Cops are retreating. They seem to be heading towards the eastern quarter.”
“That’s where the factory is,” I say. “The one with the war room and secret passage into Inner Haven.”
“I don’t know if it’s related,” says the man. “But we’re getting reports that many are heading there in their droves.”
It’s confusing, and won’t be cleared up yet. I leave the room with few answers and further questions and move to a quieter portion of the church, away towards the living quarters.
An idea seeds itself in me and I seek silence and solitude.
I reach the room I’ve been staying in and find it empty. I sit on my bed and shut my eyes, and begin seeking a connection.
But not with my brother.
With Commander Leyton Burns.
171
There’s a weak link, like an old trail through the overgrown woods, barely visible and covered in weeds and shrubbery.
But it’s there, a pathway into Commander Burns’ mind, one he himself developed the first time he entered mine.
That was months ago, just after the attack at Culture Corner that set my life on this crazy, wild path. He looked into my head and saw the attack from my perspective.
I recall now, sitting there in silence, how he looked upon me quizzically. I wonder if he saw what I was, saw my powers somewhere deep inside me, un-manifested as they were then and yet to develop.
That entrance into my mind, however, helped him create a weak telepathic link. He used it later on to help guide me a little as I went about my mission to assassinate Director Cromwell in the High Tower.
Now, I search it out and try to battle through. I picture his face and attempt to see if I can make contact with him without having to use Lady Orlando’s communicator.
The link is too weak, nothing like the pathway Zander and I have developed. I try to shout out words into his consciousness, hoping for some reply.
Commander Burns, I call. Commander Burns, it’s Brie…can you hear me?
I listen, straining every cognitive sinew I have, and hear nothing. I call out again several more times but quickly realise that the path is too opaque, and my powers too limited for such a task.
I begin to withdraw from the depths of my own consciousness, and prepare to open my eyes, when a faint echo sounds. It’s barely audible, little more than a whisper on a gust of wind, passing through before disappearing once more.
It sounds like his voice. At least I think it does. It’s too hard to tell, his words so faded and weak. I snap my eyes open at hearing him.
He’s alive, I think. At least he’s alive…
But something felt off about, something unsettling. I shut my eyes once more and call out again. This time, no reply comes.
I consider taking the news to Lady Orlando but realise there would be no point. I don’t know what I heard, if anything.
But my wary nature serves me as it so often does with a dose of concern. Something tells me that not everything has gone to plan.
The quiet gives me pause to think and rest. I sit back on the bed, telling myself I’ll take a moment to myself before venturing back out. Shutting my eyes, the last few days begin to catch up, a weariness flooding me, and I begin to drift away.
The respite is short-lived.
A rumbling of noise clatters from down the corridor. I don’t even realise I’ve fallen asleep until the sound snaps me back awake. A check of my watch tells me I caught about half an hour, barely enough to refill the fumes in my tank.
I rise wearily from the bed and leave the room, moving back into the main church.
Its contents have swelled. The sparse remainder of people here have been joined by others. I see familiar faces, revealed to us as masks and helmets are removed. I see bodies covered in armour and the grimy residue of war, grim faces, and panting mouths.
It looks like they’ve rushed to get back here as quickly as possible, those with Dasher powers emptying the tanks as they helped along those without.
Among that number, I see Rycard and Freya, the two non-Dashers in the group. Beckett is there too, along with Kira, both blessed with a fine collection of enhancements and senses.
Then there’s Astor, who appears to be the injured man Beckett referred to. His right arm looks in a bad state, hastily gathered into a sling and drowned in blood. He’s rushed straight off towards another area of the church to get some medical attention, his eyes rolling about in his skull and his lips mumbling in muted agony.
I turn my eyes to another hybrid, Marler. It appears that the other member of the group, Quinn, was the one to bite the dust.
I scan the scene and see them all, before I rush at the final member of the strike force and draw him into a hug. My brother barely has the strength to hug me back.
As I let him go, he half collapses into a chair. The rest appear just as exhausted, water rushed out and handed to them. They gulp it down and clatter into whatever empty seats and pews they can find. Only Beckett stays on his feet, the sort of man who won’t allow himself a moment to rest.
I see him head straight for Lady Orlando’s room and, through heaving breaths, hear the voice of Rycard calling me over. I move towards him.
“Sophie…Maddox…” he pants. “Are they…all right?”
“They’re fine,” I say. “We got to the mines OK.”
I hope that turns out to be true. Sophie was showing signs of toxic poisoning just before I left.
I don’t tell him that, of course.
“You’re back….so fast,” he breathes. “Is it…all safe out ther
e?”
“They’re secure, and well protected,” I say. “We had a few problems on the road, but they’re fine.”
His breathing becomes a little more feverish for a few moments, his exhaustion joined by relief. A weak and weary smile works up onto his face.
“Thank you, Brie…” he pants.
As he gulps down more water, I hear Lady Orlando re-entering the hall, accompanied by Beckett. Zander gets back to his feet. The rest remain seated.
Or sprawled.
That would be the more apt description of how they’re laid out.
Over in the comms room, the crackling of voices can still be heard. Adryan pops out briefly to see what the commotion is about before disappearing once again.
“Well done, all of you,” calls out Lady Orlando. “You have done this cause a great service. We will mourn for Quinn when we can, but that time is not now.”
I look to Marler, whose hooded eyes drop. They were clearly close friends.
“The protocol we assigned needs to be followed,” she continues. “You will need to gather your strength as quickly as you can. Adryan,” she calls. Adryan appears from the comms room again. “Where are we with our men out there? How many have you managed to communicate with?”
“We have a dozen or so commanders still engaged in the fighting. Perhaps three or four hundred of our men under them. We’re still trying with the rest, but are having trouble getting through. And we’re hearing reports of Con-Cops swarming eastwards…”
Beckett’s voice rises up.
“We passed a lot of them on our way back just now. Took down a few but they barely even engaged. I think they’re following their own programming, Lady Orlando.”
“You’re saying they’re heading east for a reason? As if it was written into their conditioning for such an eventuality as this?” she asks.
“Yes, that is one possibility,” comes Beckett’s deep voice. “They do not behave as normal soldiers. This might be some failsafe for them, retreating and holing up in the more easily defendable factories and warehouses in the eastern quarter.”
“But why wouldn’t they just retreat to Inner Haven?” I ask. “Why the eastern quarter?”
“As I say, more easily defendable,” says Beckett. “And who knows…Cromwell doesn’t usually permit any regular Unenhanced, whether they’ve been reconditioned or not, to enter Inner Haven. Such a thing might well be hardwired into them, so they’re simply unable to cross the walls into the inner part of the city.”
“Sounds ridiculous,” grunts Freya, her huge frame slumped across a pew.
“Perhaps, yes, but also just like something Artemis would do,” says Lady Orlando, surveying her. “He has little love for the Unenhanced, as we all know. Adryan, any word on him?”
Adryan shakes his head.
“It’s too busy out there, too much noise for our scouts to properly assess what’s going on. We’re still trying to connect with some of our people in Inner Haven.”
“Hang on…you mean, you don’t know if he’s dead or not?” asks Zander, flaring to life. “What about Commander Burns. He was meant to provide confirmation, wasn’t he?”
“He was,” says Lady Orlando, “but I haven’t been able to get through to him.”
Her words send a ripple of concern through the assembly.
Zander looks set to speak again, but I cut in.
“He’s not dead,” I say. “I know that much at least.”
Everyone turns to me.
“How do you know?” asks Beckett in his typically short manner.
“I have a weak telepathic link with him. I…I heard his voice.”
“And what did he say?” clatters Beckett’s voice. “Is Cromwell dead or not?!”
“I don’t know what he said. His words were too indistinct, but it was him, I’m sure of it. He sounded…I don’t know. I guess he sounded strained.”
“Rare for him to sound as such,” offers Lady Orlando coolly. “Leyton Burns isn’t a man to be affected by stress. I don’t like the sound of this. I don’t like it at all.”
Her words descend like doom. A blanket of despair covers us.
“Don’t tell me we did all that for nothing,” mutters Rycard. “Don’t tell me we killed thousands of people for nothing…”
“We don’t know yet,” says our leader. “Whatever the case, none of this is for nothing. We will continue as planned, gather our forces in the northern quarter, and march straight through the gate into Inner Haven. I assume the tunnel through the factory remains clear over in the east?”
“It is,” says Beckett. “We managed to escape from beneath the High Tower before the explosions, and killed all those who followed us. The failsafe wasn’t required in the tunnel leading out from the war room. The secret passage is still passable, assuming the Con-Cops haven’t located it.”
“Good,” says Lady Orlando. “Then Beckett, Zander, Marler, you know what to do. Get an hour or two’s rest, and return. You’ll need to ensure that the guards operating the northern gate into Inner Haven are disabled so we can pass through.”
I look from one person to the next, and they all nod. They clearly know just what’s going on, unlike me.
“So, we’re marching straight into the centre of the city? Won’t it be heavily guarded?” I ask.
Lady Orlando looks to Adryan, urging him to explain.
“According to our scouts,” he begins, “the City Guards are primarily located around Outer Haven, either fighting or trying to keep the peace. Those concentrated around the High Tower, including many Stalkers, may well have been killed in the blast. We’re waiting on confirmation about that. What is clear, however, is that there’s no better time than now to enter and take possession of Inner Haven.”
“They’re leaderless, lost,” adds Lady Orlando swiftly. “Now is our time to take hold of the future. Whoever needs to rest, do so now. We march at midnight with as big a force as we can muster.”
Her words seem to draw a close to the conversation. Anything else just seems like speculation right now. She moves back off to her quarters as the rest go to work or seek out a quiet spot to get a few winks of sleep.
Zander is among the latter. He looks like he hasn’t slept in two days at least, and with so much left to be done, is in dire need of rest. I decide not to interfere with him, despite wishing to know all about his mission and just how they managed to topple such a towering structure.
Usually, he’d have several questions for me, too, regarding my own adventures in the outerlands. The fact that he barely even looks at me makes it eminently clear that there’s nothing on his mind but sleep right now.
As the hall begins to clear, however, I find myself troubled by everything I’ve heard. The Con-Cops moving east. Burns not making contact. The faint strain I think I heard in his voice. The very obvious fact that we have no confirmation that Cromwell, or any of the Consortium, have met their makers.
I sit and ponder it all on an old pew, and think of a final person who hasn’t yet been mentioned. A person who takes joy in foiling such plots and plans.
Agent Woolf.
Only two nights ago, she escaped from her cell, taking her new slave, Rafe, along with her, corrupting him to her cause, forcing him to kill several of his allies, of our own loyal men.
We covered all the bases we could think of, setting watchers outside the gates in the north and west to ensure that, should she try to enter the city again, she’d be found by us first.
But what if we missed something?
What if, with everything going on, she slipped through the net, crept back through some secret passage that she discovered in someone’s mind? What if she managed to get into the city and alert Cromwell of our treachery just before the tower came down?
And as I go to Adryan, and find that he has heard no word on Woolf from any of our teams, I come to a single and unsettling conclusion.
Maybe Rycard was right.
Maybe we just killed thousands of people fo
r nothing…
172
The onset of night forces the Fangs inside. They enter with wide eyes and inspect the interior, finding places amid the darkest corners they can find.
Such a structure as this is as alien to them as it so recently was to me, what with its ancient interior furnishings, wood panelling, murky stained glass, and occasional old religious figure fixed to the walls. Places like this were once used to pray to some higher deity, the people believing there was a God watching over them, guiding their path.
That’s what the figures signify: an entity to look up to, to trust, to love.
That all stopped when the wars started. When humans began to play God themselves, speeding evolution and creating the Enhanced beings who populate the world today. Now, the pervading thought is that, if there was a God, he’s no longer here.
He left this place a long time ago.
And now we fend for ourselves.
As his men find their spaces to rest and admire the hall’s interior furnishings, Rhoth finds his own alongside me. I sit on a pew just off to the right, close enough to hear the goings on within the communication room, but far enough away so its sufficiently quiet for me to drop off if needed.
I doubt I will.
That half an hour of sleep I snatched seems sufficient for me now, my thoughts far too aggressive to let me catch any further rest.
It’s been like that for days, grabbing a few hours here and a few hours there. Perhaps, like with everything else, that’s the nature of my life now. I doubt there are many across the city who are able to sleep soundly right now.
The feeling is one of a calm before the storm. The inevitable trickle of time towards the latest attack. Across Outer Haven, something of a lull seems to have fallen, created in part by the withdrawal of our fighting forces from several battlegrounds scattered throughout the city.
They will gather towards the north and await us there. From the depths, Beckett, Zander, and Marler will come, disabling those who guard the northern gate and providing us entry into the inner section of the city.
