by T. C. Edge
Sophie directs us to a station to the left, where several women – all of them Unenhanced by the colour of their clothing – take our names and give us a number.
I’m passed the number 83, which I’m told to stick to my chest.
The numbers system is used to help the Enhanced easily identify us, given how similar we all look. Names are more easily forgotten, so if an Enhanced takes a fancy to one of us, they merely need to jot down the number instead.
Should several Enhanced choose the same girl to court, then they’ll win the fair maiden’s hand based on hierarchy among their ranks.
And who said they couldn’t be romantic? I scoff to myself.
Looking around the lobby, I note that every single attendee is female. Given the higher numbers of male Enhanced, there is no such need for male members of Outer Haven to marry up into their ranks. Around here, the female Enhanced are generally well catered for by their own kind, and have plenty of men to choose from.
Occasionally, if there’s call for it, a smaller event will be held for spinsters rather than bachelors. But they’re few and far between.
With the time ticking quickly towards 7PM, the crowd begin to hush. All eyes begin turning to the double doors leading into the main hall, in front of which stands a short woman with a more than ample coating of flesh.
From where I am, I can barely make out her face, let alone the expression of her eyes. Yet the colour of her clothing is sufficient to mark her out as a Savant, the light grey fabric adorning her frame signifying her position at a glance.
And on her chest, beneath her collarbone, the symbol of the city is just about visible, with the innermost circle coloured white.
“Good evening, ladies,” she begins, her voice flat and smooth and a further signifier of her status. “My name is Ingrid W. Humbert, and I am High Secretary of the Council of Matrimony. It is my honour to address you here this evening, and introduce you to your first taste of life in Inner Haven. With any luck, many of you will become permanent residents, and will go on to serve our people well. It all begins tonight.”
A little round of applause begins as Mrs Humbert pauses, and a ripple of excitement spreads across the sea of blue.
“Now, in a few moments you will go inside the hall, and there you will await the men you are here tonight to meet. Your chaperones will have told you exactly what to expect, so you’ll know that the process is simple. All you need to do is be yourself, ladies, and the men will do the rest. Good luck to all of you.”
She nods her head, before attempting one of those false smiles that the more cordial Savants use to humanise themselves. Then, as the lobby works up a fresh applause, the doors behind her open, and the main hall comes into view.
Stepping aside, she waves her arm in the direction of the grand, open space. And with Sophie whispering: “Go on, it’s time,” behind us, we begin moving with the rest of the groups of girls into the ballroom.
All in silence but for the shuffling of feet and the hushed whispering of dozens of excited girls, we move as one and spread into the open space. I take it all in in one glance. Really, it isn’t much to look at.
Wide and open, and yet adopting the same colourless visage as the outside of the building, the place is little more than an empty space. A viewing platform for the men of Inner Haven to look upon us and consider who they wish to speak to. That, really, is it’s only purpose.
Remaining in our teams, we follow the procedures we’ve been taught, and move to our assigned points. For us, that’s the far corner of the hall on the left.
There, we find one of the few points of interest in the room: a table lightly decorated with little snacks to nibble on, and an assortment of drinks from which to choose.
The offerings are sparse, however, particularly with regards to the drinks. Yet, to mark the occasion, each table is fitted with 20 glasses of champagne, a drink I’ve yet to try. As required, we all pick one up before standing to the side of the table in a line.
The same goes for each group of girls, spread around the room. All holding our glasses, we stand in silence as our chaperones perform one final inspection.
“Good luck,” says Sophie, standing before us like a mother sending her children off for their first day of school. The pride exuding from her is palpable, if a little misplaced.
For my part at least.
Her eyes scan us, one by one, just to make sure all our dresses are in order, and our makeup hasn’t smudged or hair fallen out of place.
Given my experience over the last couple of days, I expect her to come forward and completely rearrange me. As it is, her eyes pass over me as they do the rest, before she nods, satisfied that we’re all ready to go.
Then, behind her, a little horn sounds, calling for all the chaperones to depart the hall.
“Good luck!” she whispers again. “Knock them dead!”
Then, with a hasty step, she scuttles off towards the exit with the rest of the escorts.
A short silence follows, the room swallowed up by a deathly hush. My eyes scan the room and see no movement at all, but for the occasional shuffle of nervous feet. Standing third in line of our group – our group is numbered 81 to 100 – I turn my eyes to the door and wait. All eyes linger on the same spot.
By now, we all know the procedure. It’s about to go down.
Above the door, a large clock ticks silently. It read 6.59, and 34 seconds.
We watch the second hand tick round, inching northwards towards the summit. Time-keeping here is so precise. They’ll surely enter on the dot.
When the second hand ticks past 56, and 57, and 58, and 59, we collectively hold our breath and a deeper silence falls. Then, as expected, as the minute and second hands move together to point due north, and the time hits 7PM, the door creaks open once more.
And through they come.
Each wears a black suit, and each holds a glass of champagne in their hands as we do. All of them have short hair, neatly cut, ranging in colour but all styled the same. They march through the passage like a troop of soldiers, spreading into the hall and stopping in the centre, where they line up the same as us, looking out at the many groups of gathered girls.
I conduct a quick count, and note that there are far fewer of them than there are us. Perhaps a scale of 3 to 1 in our favour. Although, such odds are not in our favour at all.
It’s one of the few things Sophie neglected to tell us. Only a third of the girls here are likely to come away with a man. The rest are going to be bitterly disappointed.
It’s not a competition, she’d said. I doubt the girls here are seeing it like that, judging by the looks in their eyes.
As the black-suited men come in, I note a few others at the back, half a dozen or so, hidden in their midst. They stick out like trees in the empty desert, dressed in the same suits and yet conspicuous for the different colours they adopt.
Not black, but light grey.
They must be Savants.
Others stick out for very different reasons. The towering and hulking figures of Brutes, looking so odd dressed up so fine, dot the throng, drawing the eyes of many of the girls. For sheer spectacle, they’re quite something to look at.
I’d prefer to draw the line at just looking, though.
Others carry the intense countenance so common among Hawks, eyes already searching the faces of the surrounding girls closely for features they might find attractive.
Then there are Bats, and Sniffers, utilising their own super-senses to determine who they might wish to greet first. The former will be able to hear heartbeats, the rise and fall of a girl’s breathing as they look upon them. The latter will indulge in the many personal scents and odours in the room, zeroing in on those they find most appealing.
The more fidgety must be Dashers. I suppose their abilities will allow them to greet more girls more quickly, speedily working the room before the hourglass runs dry.
Quite what appeal the Savants bring, however, is beyond me. Prestige,
I suppose, and nothing more. For many of these girls – perhaps even most – that might just be the most critical factor of all. There can be no higher calling for one of these ‘ladies of the Unenhanced’ than creating little Savant children.
A loveless union, no doubt, but a prestigious one. For the girls, at least.
It takes a few minutes for all the men to enter the hall, and wander towards the centre. Once they’ve all gathered, the doors close once again and, as one, the Enhanced all raise their champagne glasses to the air.
With their glasses aloft, they dip their heads in respect, before each taking a sip. That’s our cue to do the same. All around the room, the hundreds of girls follow, raising their glasses, bowing their heads reverently, and then bringing the flutes to their lips.
I taste the cool, fizzy liquid, and consider it far nicer than the whiskey I’ve been forced to drink recently. Then, lowering my glass back down along with all the rest, we set our eyes back on the men before us, and wait.
Procedure has been followed. All traditions have been observed.
And now the games begin.
8
The men begin to move.
Within moments, the room has altered its shape, the centre now emptying once again and the Enhanced spreading out like water from a burst dam. Many, it would appear, have already chosen their primary targets. They waste little time in making their introductions.
With my heart threatening to leap from my mouth, I wait for the deluge of men to advance on our group. I count at least a dozen of them coming straight for us, and a number of them have eyes on me. By the looks of things, Sophie wasn’t lying when she told me I was the talk of the town.
Dressed and made up much the same as I was during the ceremony, I’m fairly easy to spot. The first to swoop, perhaps unsurprisingly, is a Dasher, utilising his speed to dance his way to the front of the queue.
As I’ve been taught, etiquette states that only one Enhanced can talk to a girl at a time. He’ll be given a few minutes to speak with me before another man gets his turn.
As he bears down on me, I note his youthful visage. He looks to be younger than I am, an excitable child so thrilled to be surrounded by such a bevy of beauties.
Like a puppy he comes bounding, skipping forward and arriving in front of me in a flash. I suspect that he’s overstepping the mark, his excitement getting the better of him. The exuberance of youth, I suppose, is something even the Savants can’t stifle completely.
With a warm smile he approaches, stopping a metre or so away and performing a little bow of respect. I follow, mimicking his action as the official greeting protocol demands.
Next, I’m supposed to wait for him to speak first. I don’t have to wait long.
“Your name’s Brie, isn’t it?” he asks fervently, his voice exploding out of him.
“I am,” I answer calmly.
“I knew it was you! I saw you at the ceremony. My friends are going to love this. Is your friend here too? What was her name? Um…no, don’t tell me, I’ll remember. Hmmmmm….what was it? Oh yeah, Tess. That’s it, right? Tess?”
His words tumble so fast I can barely hear what he’s saying. I know that Dashers have a tendency to talk quickly sometimes, but this is something else. Surely a mixture of his bloodline and his excitement? The kid probably has ADHD too.
Imagine that, a Dasher with ADHD. I feel for the girl who ends up with him.
Of course, it won’t be me. That honour will go to the mystery man known as Adryan, who must be somewhere in this room. Foolishly, with everything going down so quickly, I’d forgotten to ask either Lady Orlando or Zander what sort of Enhanced he was. I can only hope he isn’t like this particular boy.
“So…I’m right, yeah?” comes the boy’s voice once more.
He’d barely given me a split second to answer. The world must run in slow motion to him.
“Yes, that’s right,” I tell him.
He beams.
“I knew it. So, she’s here?”
I shake my head.
“Unfortunately not.”
His eyebrows do a little dance of disappointment.
“Aw, you’re kidding. I liked her a lot.”
I don’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved. Clearly, he only came over to me to ask about Tess.
“Well, you should have invited her,” I suggest. “I’ve heard that an invite from an Enhanced means a girl can forgo the scouting and testing process?”
“Sometimes,” he says, shrugging. “Depends on what rank you are.”
“Rank?”
“Yeah, rank. Like, I’m a Dasher, and I’m only 18…”
Ah, so he’s 18. He seems younger really.
“I live on the Outer Spiral,” he continues. “And I don’t work for the City Guard or anything. I’ve got a boring job really,” he chuckles. “So yeah, I’m quite a low rank. I can’t invite anyone here.”
He seems quite jovial about it all. Clearly, he has no problem talking himself down. It’s refreshing to see, actually. Other than his super-speed, this kid’s just like any of them over at the academy.
I guess he was just born on the right side of the tracks. Or wrong, depending on how you look at it…
“Well, maybe Tess will be scouted one day,” I say. “She’s clever, and I know she wants to marry up. Hopefully you’ll meet her next time.”
“Yeah, hopefully. Unless I find someone else tonight!”
Again, I feel a pinch of pity for whoever that might be.
Then again, nothing says you have to court an Enhanced if you don’t want to. If one choses you above all others, and has designs to make you his wife, then there’s no obligation to follow through.
That said, such a thing would be extremely rare. For a regular Unenhanced girl to deny the advances of an Enhanced would be considered hugely disrespectful. Every girl who is scouted is fully aware that they have little choice in the matter should they be chosen.
As the boy begins to chatter away again, a finger the size of a toddler’s arm taps him on the shoulder.
“Time’s up, boy,” comes a deep and resounding voice.
So caught up was I with the young Dasher that I’d barely paid any attention to the man approaching behind him. As my eyes rear up, however, they take in a colossal form, a vast shadow filling the space at his back.
The Dasher turns, and his eyes greet the barrel chest of a Brute, one who appears to be at least twice his age and several times his size. The boy’s eyes arch up, and with a little nervous squeak he says: “Sure, sir, she’s all yours…”
With a sheepish glance back at me, he scoots away in search of an easier prize.
The Brute takes a step forward. The ground seems to shake. As is the custom, he performs the expected head bow, his gigantic dome dipping and rising back up to a height of what must be well over 8 feet.
I do the same, and then wait for him to speak.
When he does, his breath comes at me like a tornado.
“Brie Melrose,” he says, with a great deal more composure that my last suitor. “We’ve met once before. Or, well, met isn’t really true. We’ve been in close contact.”
“Erm…really?” I say uneasily.
“Yes. It’s no wonder you don’t remember. I was wearing a helmet and my uniform at the time. I’m a member of the City Guard. I was there the day you performed so admirably after the attack at Culture Corner. Might I say, bravo. It took courage to act as you did.”
He reaches forward with his champagne glass, which appears so small between his meaty fingers.
I do the same, and clink my glass to his, before taking a sip.
“Thank you for your kind words,” I say, gazing skyward to his face. “I was just happy to help.”
A rush of concern sweeps through me. Is this Adryan? Is this the man I’m here to meet?
The thought is quickly dismissed as the Brute speaks again.
“Well, I just wanted to come and say hello,” he booms. “I have
no designs on you, don’t worry…”
“Worry?”
His mouth builds into a smile, one which reminds me of Drum. Although this man’s dimensions are on a whole other level.
“Yes. I’m well aware that my order of Enhanced isn’t the most appealing to you ladies. I’ve been to these balls several times before with little luck, and have no interest in courting a girl unless she reciprocates.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “I’m sure there are lots of girls here who’d like to court you?”
“Don’t be so sure, young lady. Most tend to be drawn to the Hawks,” he sighs. “No matter. I’ve dedicated my life to other pursuits, and am proud to represent the City Guard. Your courage was a reminder to me that we aren’t so different after all, Miss Melrose. I haven’t been to a bachelor ball in many years, and came tonight because I heard you were coming, and I wanted to meet you…”
“Meet me?”
He nods respectfully once more.
“Don’t be so surprised, Miss Melrose,” he says, attempting to lower his thunderous voice. “We’re not all like the Savants…”
I frown at him, but he merely smiles once more.
“Good evening,” he says again. “I hope you find who, or what, you’re looking for.”
He turns and wanders off, blending as best he can back into the crowd. And with his mountainous frame removed from my view, a clearer picture of the hall appears before me.
A sigh escapes my lips. A queue appears to have formed.
Several men line up, one behind the other, waiting to greet me. Frankly, it baffles me as to why I’m so popular.
As the next hour or so progresses, it becomes clear why I’m being sought out. Mostly, I’m asked about my time in Inner Haven the last time I came here, and whether I heard anything from Deputy Burns when the Nameless took over the video feed.
I play dumb when queried on such things, much to their disappointment. Upon hearing I have nothing to share, most quickly abandon their time with me. And here was me thinking rumour and gossip were frowned upon around here.
