by T. C. Edge
“Doesn’t seem like it. They’re all carrying weapons, and one has a pulse rifle. I didn’t expect to find them here.”
I didn’t know what to expect. I just hoped. Foolishly.
I have no time to dwell.
“Follow me,” says Kira, leading me right, to where the kids seem to be gathered.
Is it Abby? Nate? Are these some kids picked up from the academy, or off the street, kept here to be taught to steal to feed their masters?
We reach the right door, and share a look. Kira whispers: “Eight kids. Three armed with knives. Five others...shackled. Various ages. Lower the setting on that.”
She nods to my immobiliser, and I turn down the dial. Overdoing the charge with kids too young could cause heart failure.
“Disable those armed. Ready?”
I answer by looking at the door and she immediately opens it up. It isn’t locked, and doesn’t require any aggressive attention. We dart straight inside and my eyes immediately fall to what Kira has already seen; a small dorm room with bunk beds against brick walls, and a set of chairs up against another.
In the chairs, five children sit, their hands locked tight to the arms and ankles to the legs, just like how I was in the High Tower. A flash of memory flares, and for a moment I see myself locked tight in that terrible place. Then, my mind clears, and I look upon the children, their eyes wrapped up behind masks, nothing for them to see but darkness.
A couple of them are gagged too, probably to stop them whimpering. All shudder at the sound of the door opening, as if expecting something unpleasant.
I take it all in in just a split second, and then my eyes fall on the only uncovered faces in the room. Three children stand before the shackled kids, two boys and a girl, all looking to be in their early to mid-teens.
Two I don’t recognise. One I do.
Brandon the Bully stands before me, his eyes taking me in as mine do his. They morph from shock to confusion at the sight of me. As far as he last knew, I was living in the High Tower, recently married to a Savant.
Things have moved on from there…
For a second, no one does anything. Even Kira seems to sense that it’s not her place to act. She merely stands beside me, as Brandon and I lock eyes.
And in his, I see a coil of fear.
“B…Brie…” he whispers. “I heard you were dead.”
There’s a hint of malice, of uncaring in his words. But mostly, he’s completely bemused by my sudden entrance. His tone of voice tells me that. His face tells me that. The thoughts that are so clear within his mind tell me that.
“You thought I was in the High Tower,” I say.
He nods.
“What are you doing here?”
The boy to his right, a little older than him, draws a knife. The girl, about his age, does the same. Through my peripheral vision, I see Kira’s lips curl into a little grin.
“You two don’t want to be doing that,” she says.
The kids look to each other. They probably come to the same conclusion.
“I’m here to find the kids,” I say sternly to Brandon. “I know the academy was raided, Brandon. I know it was you.” I steady by rage with a deep breath, and look at the tied up kids. They’re beginning to murmur now, those without gags whimpering and calling out. “Move aside,” I growl, stepping forward.
Behind me, Kira kicks the door shut and draws out her pistol. She aims it at the kids’ heads and cocks hers to one side, ordering them over towards the nearest bunk.
“Take a seat,” she says.
They nervously do as ordered, lining up like three schoolchildren being reprimanded by their teacher. I step straight for the kids and begin to whisper: “It’s OK now, it’s OK, we’re here to help you.”
I work from the right, removing blindfolds and gags, praying that I see some kids I recognise. I do. Three of them I know, all of them from the academy, all boys of about ten or eleven captured by one of their own.
Their eyes dance up when they see me, wet with tears of fear and relief at hearing me, seeing me.
“It’s OK now, I’m here,” I say softly.
The other two I don’t know, perhaps kids taken from their parents or from the streets, forced to join this despicable little outfit.
I work to untie their hands and ankles, liberating their little frames. They quickly move off to the far wall near the door, huddling behind me as I stand up tall and turn back on Bran.
The boy, always a chief bully, always teasing and taunting those he deemed different, now cowers as I glare at him. As my hazel eyes burn and flame, spitting out hot coals.
I take a step forward, and all three of them shift back a little on the bed.
Then, Bran’s voice comes pouring.
“I didn’t mean to,” he stutters. “I…it wasn’t my fault. He made me. He made me tell him about the academy. I would never…not to Mrs Carmichael, I would never…”
His panting, rapid-fire speech quells my rage a little. I turn to Kira, a frown settling over her eyes. I can’t tell if he’s faking it, acting this out. At least, not without reading his thoughts, hidden as his head hangs low and eyes are shielded.
But she can.
“Is he being honest?” I ask.
She turns to him again, inspects him for a moment.
“His pulse is way up. Perspiration high. Seems real enough to me.”
Bran is still breathing heavily, gulping down air.
“Calm down, Brandon,” I order. “Lift your chin. Look right at me.”
His eyes slowly appear, his shivering frame all bunched up and awkward.
I guide myself into his mind, and actively calm him. When I withdraw, he’s gone placid once more.
Then, he looks at me in amazement.
“You’re…like him,” he whispers. “You can manipulate people…”
“What do you mean, like him?” I ask sternly, stepping forward.
His eyes flutter, and lips quiver.
My patience is too short.
I dart straight back into his head, and see the thoughts playing out right now in his mind. See this man, this leader of the Voiceless, capable of turning kids’ minds to his will. A Mind-Manipulator of crude ability, his powers undeveloped and weak, but just enough to work on the immature and innocent.
I turn to Kira.
“It’s a Mind-Manipulator,” I say. “Not a powerful one. Just an Unenhanced with some old Savant blood…”
“Right,” says Kira. “So that’s what he does. Gets little kids to do his bidding for him, then lives off their labour. Nothing but a leech.”
I can see she’s just as incensed as I am. We turn back to Brandon together.
“So, he made you lead his men to the academy to loot the place? And take the kids.”
Behind me, the poor things shudder.
Brandon does too.
“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. I didn’t mean any of it…”
“It’s OK, calm down. Do you know where the others are?” I ask quickly. “From the academy?”
He shakes his head.
“I…I don’t know. They only took a few. The rest…I don’t know, maybe the shelters. I’ve heard of shelters in the south where people are hiding from the war.”
Again, I look at Kira.
“That’s’ true,” she says. “There’s a major shelter in the southern quarter. An old concert hall, I think. They might have gone there.”
“Well then, that’s where we’re going next I guess.”
Brandon continues to stutter as we speak, babbling away about how it’s not his fault.
“I didn’t mean it, Brie…I swear, none of it. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. Nate, he…”
I turn on him, my heart hammering.
“Nate?! Did you say Nate?!”
He can barely look at me.
“Brandon, tell me what you mean. Tell me NOW! Has something happened to Nate?!”
He’s still incoherent, his words ram
bling. I reach out and grab his face, and drag his eyes to mine. Then I rush straight back inside, and search for his recent memory of the little boy from the academy.
And then, I see him. Lying down on a medical bed, his chest covered in bandages, his eyes shut and body still. The room looks similar to this one, the brickwork the same, the proportions identical.
And then I realise, it’s the same building. The same floor.
The weak pulse that Kira could barely feel.
It belongs to Nate.
180
I launch myself straight to my feet and turn straight to the door.
“What are you doing?!” calls Kira. “What did you see?”
I turn back to her as I grip the door handle.
“The kid with the weak pulse…which room was he in?” I demand.
She shuts her eyes once more, activates the Sight. Then, they open up and she speaks.
“Outside the door, straight down the corridor, second door on the left. I…I can’t feel anything anymore.”
My chest clenches.
“Stay here with them,” I croak, swivelling and darting off through the door.
I’m down the passage in a flash, passing the stairs we came down and turning into the second door on the left. I skid to a halt, and the door trickles shut behind me.
The room is bare but for a small medical bed. There’s a smell of antiseptic, of the healing lotions I’ve used so often in recent weeks. I hover in place for a moment, just staring at the little frame lying face up, at the red that soaks the white bandages on his chest.
I step forward tentatively, reaching out with my hand. I touch Nate’s neck and feel cold skin. I press harder, searching for a heartbeat, for a sign of life, but feel nothing. Nothing but the faintest thud, like a distant call away across the wilderness.
I look to his little face and see blood smeared across his cheeks. His eyes are shut, his face peaceful. I keep my finger to his neck, hoping for something more.
Nothing.
My other hand glides gently to his chest, to the dressings that cover him. They’re loose, not wrapped tight, the blood and wound fresh. I bite back the tears as I draw the bandages away, and see the long, thin gash cut right across his heart.
My chin fastens tight, refusing to quiver. I stare for a moment at the stab wound before slowly drawing the dressings back. From the corners of my eyes, stinging tears claw their way out as I look back at Nate’s little, innocent face, at the soft skin and pre-teen features.
And still, I feel nothing in his neck.
I know he’s dead.
For a few moments, I stand there looking at him. Tears begin sliding from my eyes, marching, one after another, down my cheeks and into the corner of my mouth. I want to scream, to let out a roar, but hold it all in and turn it to anger.
To rage.
To the only thing that I can give Nate now.
Revenge.
I remove the jacket that covers me, that of the City Guard, and lay it over his body. Leaning in, I set my lips to his cheek and feel the cold, lifeless skin.
“Goodbye, Nathan,” I whisper, tears choking me.
I lean back and drag the jacket up and over his face, covering him in darkness forever.
For a second, I stand there motionless, my blood boiling. Then, with a sudden step, I march back to the door, my hand leaving a print of Nate’s blood on the handle as I open it up. I move down the corridor, and back to where Kira and the kids await.
Stepping in, Kira turns to me in pity. She knows what happened. She heard it. She felt it.
My eyes look to Brandon.
“Who did it?” I ask, my voice a strange calm, quiet in the silent room.
He gulps.
“The...boss. Nate...he...he couldn’t be controlled by him,” he stutters. “He spat in his face when…he tried to…get in his head. The boss…he…stabbed him,” he sniffs, shutting his eyes tight.
My eyes are blank as two stones now, my voice flat as I ask: “Where is he?”
Brandon lifts his shivering hand, and points it towards the rear of the basement floor.
I look to Kira.
“Stay here,” I tell her again.
“They’re armed, Brie,” she says. “And there’s not much space. There are two guards…”
“Stay here,” I repeat, stepping back out of the door.
It shuts behind me. A silence falls.
I walk a few paces on, greeting the intersection down here where the passage heads in various directions. I turn my eyes down the one I intend to walk, and see a door at the end.
I walk towards it, slowly, methodically. My pulse rifle stays locked to my back. My pistol remains fastened to its holster.
My fingers take a grip instead of my knife, six inches long, razor sharp. I hold it firmly in my hand as I approach the door. I listen, and hear voices. Voices of men.
I knock, and the voices stop.
Then one lifts again.
“Who the hell is it,” growls a man.
I don’t answer. I knock again.
“Who’s there, goddammit?!
I don’t answer. I knock again.
“Karl, see who this joker is…”
I stand motionless, right in the middle of the frame. I wait, my heart-rate steady, my breaching calm. My eyes refuse to blink, narrow and staring, still wet with the memory of Nate’s death.
The door opens up slowly, and a large man stands before me. I’ve met far larger.
“Who the hell are you?!” growls the voice. “Hey boss, it’s just a girl…”
“A girl? One of ours?” comes the voice from behind.
“Nah, too old. Who the hell are you?” asks the guard called Karl.
My hand hovers to my side, the knife just hidden. I stare at the man, blocking my view ahead, and don’t answer.
“Karl, get out of the way,” says the boss. “I wanna see what she looks like...”
Karl steps to the side, leaving the door wide open. I look ahead and see another guard, off to the right by the side of a desk, his hands holding a pulse rifle.
Behind the desk, however, is where my eyes hold firm. They stare into the face of a middle-aged man, his hair receding and thin, his cheeks drooping and jowls showing. Folds of unpleasant, fatty skin roll about on his neck, and his small, beady eyes stare from deep-set sockets.
A smile changes the shape of his face. It grows even more grotesque.
“Well, what do we have here?” oozes his voice. “You looking for work, girl. A pretty girl like you…we’ll find you work, don’t you worry.”
Karl and the other guard laugh sycophantically. I just stare forward, impassive.
“Well come on, girl, don’t you speak?!” asks the boss. “How did you get down here anyway? And why…why are you wearing those clothes?”
I’m no longer wearing my City Guard jacket. That’s now covering the body of my friend. I’m standing in such a position that my pulse rifle is hidden on my back, and my pistol hidden in the holster on my hip. Even the knife, still gripped tight to my hand, is out of view, these horrible men looking only at my face and what lies just beneath it.
But now, they know something’s up. They know it from the dark grey colours of the City Guard that adorn me. They know it from the fact that I’m not speaking. They know it by the look in my eyes: staring, unblinking, burning with a suppressed hatred.
I move for the first time, taking a step over the threshold.
The man with the pulse rifle aims it right at me. Karl, the other guard, draws up his own pistol and points it at my head.
“Stop right there,” growls the boss. “Now tell us, why are you dressed as a City Guard? You’re not a City Guard!”
I inch forward.
“I said hold it! One more step and we’ll blow that pretty face of yours right off,” says the boss.
I stop.
“Good, that’s it. The girl knows how to obey. Now, come on and tell us who you are…”
I’m not listening to him. Not anymore. My eyes are shutting slowly, and my mind is filling with the sight of Nate’s lifeless face once more.
I feel a river of hate pour through me, gushing down every channel, the blood in my veins and arteries simmering to the boil.
As the man continues to speak, I draw in a long breath.
And then, I unleash…
I move so fast they can’t see me.
I explode like a nuclear bomb in that small office, ransacking these men as they did my academy. I move right first, surging at the man with the most potent weapon, bringing forward the dagger in my hand and slicing it straight across his throat.
He spins with the motion of the blade, and his head tips back as his neck opens up, letting out a waterfall of blood that begins to spray over the desk and the boss sitting behind it in spurts of dark red.
I leave the man standing there like a human fountain, and move left before Karl can react. I’m at his side, looking up into his face, and bringing the knife right along with me. I guide it straight up from under his chin, the full six inches cutting right through and into his tiny brain.
He goes still like he’s been zapped with an immobiliser, his eyes caught in a sudden agony.
Paralysed.
Dead.
I whip around behind the boss now, my Dasher powers still flowing through me with more purpose than they ever have. Reaching the back of the overweight, despicable creature, his face now sprinkled in the blood of his guard, I slow my body once more, and the passage of time returns to normal.
Both men to his left and right hit the ground as one. The human fountain drops to his knees, and the brain-dead oaf collapses to the floor. The boss barely seems to know where I am before my knife appears in front of his neck from behind him.
“Please…please don’t,” he begs, whimpering.
I see a pistol in his hand.
“Throw away the gun,” I say.
He does so immediately, tossing it to the floor.
“Don’t…kill me. Please, don’t kill me. Who…who are you?!”
I enjoy his begging. I feast on it, wolf down every little morsel.
For Nate.
“Stand up,” I say.
I pull the knife away from his neck and step back. He stands from his desk, shivering, still begging.
