Exiled: Kenly's Story (A Talented Novel)

by Sophie Davis

  “Okay. Wow. I get it. You know me. Quite well, actually.” Honora’s words were short and clipped, borderline sarcastic, and I worried that I’d inadvertently offended her.

  “Oh…no, Honora…I didn’t intend…. I mean, I’m sorry. I get carried away sometimes. My brain…it’s just always…. I can’t help it. I notice things about people and…,” I trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence.

  The silence in the room settled, so vast and definitive that you could practically hear it humming. Whether Honora was pondering the scope of my Higher Reasoning Talent and its ramifications or if she was simply angry with me, the awkwardness was the same. Just as I resigned myself to the end of our conversation and began drifting off to sleep, Honora broke the quiet without warning.

  “James is…paranoid. Always has been, even before these random attacks started. He doesn’t let anyone get too close. I’m shocked he talks to you at all. And the way he tells you about his cars? That’s practically babbling for James.” Honora didn’t acknowledge my apology. Hopefully that meant she felt as if there was nothing to apologize for.

  “Why? Why is he so paranoid?”

  Not that I had any right to ask, let alone judge. I was pretty paranoid myself. But I was a fugitive, wanted by UNITED, and apparently several shadier organizations as well. It made sense for me to look over my shoulder constantly.

  Honora’s voice was whisper-soft and hard to hear when she answered.

  “We all know the Poachers are out there. Riley’s had a couple close bouts. And just before James came along, a lodger here with us was pinched coming out of the Tube station, only round the corner from here. He…I can’t even remember the chap’s name anymore. That’s terribly wretched of me, isn’t it? But so many pass through here with similar tales.” She sighed. “In any case, James has a more personal experience with the Poachers. He’s actually been nabbed.”

  I sat up too fast and felt my head spin with the rush.

  “What? When?” I rubbed my forehead to no avail.

  “Quite a while past now,” Honora said quietly. “Keep your voice down. He’ll be right pissed if he hears us nattering about him.”

  She paused, as if expecting James to barge in at any moment and scold us.

  “James is high-born, from a posh lineage. They have money, titles, lands, an ancestry that can be traced back to when marrying cousins was fashionable—the whole lot. By all accounts, James was supposedly the first Chrome in the line. More likely, he was the first Chrome the mighty Wellington’s couldn’t hide.

  “His family, they tried to conceal James. Sent him to some first-class preparatory for boys, the one all future heirs attend. And they cautioned him to never use his powers.”

  Honora laughed softly, apparently thinking of James as a boy.

  “The poor boy, he lasted but a week. Got tossed for accidentally electrocuting a schoolmate during a rugby match. His parents….”

  Honora went quiet. I wanted to climb down and shake her, prompt her to continue. But she was obviously having trouble talking about what happened to James. In that moment, I realized how much she cared for him. They must’ve been through a lot together.

  “They disowned him,” she finally finished. Her voice took on an edge of anger—outrage for the child he’d been. “And they refused to let him return home. Can you imagine? He was only a little thing. Ten years old and living on the streets. Of course, it didn’t take long for the Poachers to discover him.”

  Realization dawned.

  “The Circus of Wonders,” I breathed. “That’s why he worked there? Because the Poachers made him?”

  “It’s complicated. They own it, the Poachers. Same as the other clubs. All the staff are Chromes. Some are there by choice. Others are enslaved.”

  “Wait,” I asked, something momentarily distracting me from James’s story. “Why would anyone ever work there by choice?”

  “Protection. Working at the clubs is certain safety. None of the other Poaching crowds will touch you. And the gangs leave you alone, in addition.

  “Of course, the exchange is your free will. Even willingly working at places like the Circus, Chromes have to live where they’re told, eat what they’re fed, and do as they’re advised by the Poachers. The Chromes there are only a small bit better off than the menial slaves.

  “Those who go willingly appreciate how difficult jobs are come by for us. And the Poachers take advantage, acting as if they’re aiding us. Even at the Techno Hut we have a strict no-Chrome policy. Mick, the guvnor there, he’s soft for our kind, but the owners aren’t at all. I had to lie on my application—checked the ‘no’ box where it asked if I was a Chrome. And if people were freely aware that Willa’s a Chrome, Tug would lose so much business, I reckon the Giraffe would be going under.”

  “Back up a minute. How did James get free?” I asked. My heart ached for the state of the world as a whole, but mostly for what James endured as a child. “Did they just let him go?”

  “Not a clue. James doesn’t talk about it. And you shouldn’t either. People are tetchy about their pasts.”

  Unsure whether her words about inquiries into people’s histories were meant as a friendly warning, I took them that way. Don’t ask us, we won’t ask you.

  That was all well and good as far when it came to the rest of them. I had absolutely no problem leaving it alone. But James had already asked me about my past. So I didn’t feel quite as bad digging into his.

  The mattress springs whined as Honora flipped over to lay on her stomach.

  “That’s all I’ve got for you, love. I know, it’s an unhappy tale. See you in the morning, Kenly. Maybe then things will be looking up for the lot of us.”

  Sleep wasn’t coming after that depressing discussion. I tossed and turned for what felt like forever. Worried that I might be disturbing Honora, I retrieved my comm from my satchel and took it into the kitchen.

  Tea seemed like a good sleep aid. Particularly one called Dreamy Time that I’d spotted when I was cleaning. I filled an old, warped saucepan halfway with water from the tap. Setting it on the hot plate, I lit the burner, and waited. Since I’d heard the saying, a watched pot never boils, like eight times every home visit with my mother, I focused instead on my comm, specifically today’s news. Nothing had really changed since I’d last checked around lunchtime. A new record was accumulating: other than the press conference, which wasn’t actually about us, the Created had not made headlines in seventy-two hours and counting. Hopefully that meant there actually weren’t any new disasters to report, not that UNITED had issued a gag order. After the disastrous press conference and standoff with Dana Duvall, it wouldn’t surprise me if Councilwoman Walburton was now bribing local law enforcement to keep quiet about any incidents involving the Created. With the Treaty vote just around the corner, UNITED couldn’t afford any more bad press.

  A local report on a site called The Daily Dirt caught my eye. It was a tabloid known for running a wide variety of stories, ranging from the bizarre to the inane. The piece claimed that UNITED was presenting evidence of an antidote, able to negate the effects of the Creation Drug, at the upcoming Global Summit. The article quoted an anonymous source inside of UNITED as saying, “The antidote is still in the early stages of testing, but the drug has been successfully administered to test subjects. The team is hopeful for the future capabilities of the serum.”

  Whoa. An antidote? Seriously?

  That made it sound as though we’d all been poisoned. I suddenly felt itchy all over, like microscopic bugs were crawling underneath my skin. And then another horrific thought occurred to me: Were the human test subjects actually the Created that UNITED had captured and contained? Was Alana given the antidote against her will?

  Angered by this newest development, I pounded the keys on my communicator, searching for other stories that would substantiate the existence of an antidote. But we’re not diseased! I hit the screen so hard that a tiny crack appeared in the upper left corner. Aweso
me.

  Calm down, Kenly. You can’t afford to break things every time you get angry. The world is shit, and you don’t have enough money to replace everything you own. Besides, the story might not even be true.

  And that was the absolute truth. The authenticity of the article’s facts was in serious question since it came from The Daily Dirt. The site was known for incensing gossip and rumors that were more fiction than fact. Though a sprinkling of bona fide news was thrown in every so often for good measure, the DD was known for outrageously appalling claims. The article just above the one about the antidote was entitled, The Creation Drug, It’s Out Of This World! Former TOXIC Operative Confirms The Chemical Was Developed By Aliens.

  Deliberately keying away, I went to more legitimate sites, where my search for information on the theoretical antidote yielded no results. To keep tabs on the possibility, as horrific as it was, I set up a search crawler to continuously comb cyberspace for any future mentions of the alleged antidote. This was definitely something I wanted to keep an eye on. Reversing the effects of the Creation Drug could be a game changer as far as the Treaty vote was concerned. Though it was utterly unfair to those of us who weren’t causing national disasters with our new Talents, if there was any way at all to avoid what I’d seen in my Vision, I’d go along with it. The countries who were uncertain about renewing the Treaty might be persuaded to uphold it if UNITED showed them a successful antidote.

  Despite the promise of what an antidote could do for Talents around the world, I couldn’t help considering the personal ramifications.

  What did an antidote mean for me? Would I be forced to take it? Was that ultimately my fate if caught? To have my Created gifts stripped? And if losing my new gifts meant that the Treaty would stand—wasn’t the sacrifice worth universal peace?

  A selfish part of me thought no.

  A chill ran up my spine as another, even more terrifying, thought occurred to me: Would the antidote only negate Created abilities? Or would our natural Talents be at risk, too?

  All of those people in the world who hated us…they’d see a drug capable of eradicating all Talents. Created, natural, peaceful, violent—it wouldn’t make a difference to them. They believed there was a problem, and an exterminating antidote would be the optimal solution.

  It would lead to the extinction of my kind.

  Would it be worth risking that? Produce the antidote and bring about world peace, but then be wiped out entirely? Or keep it in the dark and preserve Talents, but plunge the world into violent chaos?

  “Enough water there for two cups?

  I jumped, waffled the communicator like a hot potato, and then watched helplessly as it fell to the floor. Thankfully the ancient linoleum was warped from leaky pipes that would never be fixed, so my electronic lifeline to the world remained in one piece.

  “Whatever you’re reading must be of remarkable interest if you didn’t hear me approaching,” James said, platinum eyes slightly apologetic as he bent to retrieve the comm.

  His fingers brushed mine when he placed the device into my upturned palm. A pleasant tingling sensation flitted up my arm from the brief contact. Embarrassed by my body’s reaction, I directed my gaze downward and muttered a reply.

  “Thanks.”

  “An antidote? That would certainly be a fascinating development, if it’s true,” James commented.

  He still a slight hold on the communicator, the screen facing upward and turned towards him. The small button on the side that returned the user to the previous screen view must’ve been pushed when the comm fell; it was again displaying The Daily Dirt article.

  Unsure of what to say, I was torn between embarrassment and a desire to discuss the conclusions I’d reached. I opened my mouth to mutter a reply when I noticed the pan on the hotplate. The water was adamantly boiling, small hot flecks spitting over the edge of the tin pan, hissing and letting off small trails of steam.

  James released the communicator and I hastily set it on the counter before grabbing a plain black mug with a chipped yellow stripe and one that bore the emblem of Tug’s bar, a giraffe with wings inside of a diamond. Setting them both on the counter, I dug out an extra tea bag, and dropped one in each. Using two hands, I tipped boiling water into the mugs, careful to keep my arms as far as possible from the rising steam. Sugar and milk weren’t luxuries we could afford, so straight was the only option.

  James nodded his thanks, turned, and took his tea over to sit on the futon. He was shirtless again tonight. And with his washboard abs, the look really worked for him. He actually had a tan, which was rare around these parts. Both Riley and Honora verged on translucent, while Willa had her Indian ancestors to thank for her gorgeous dark complexion.

  I looked down at my sleep shorts and pasty legs…I had no room to talk about pale skin. The forest green tee Honora had lent me was baggy and scoop-necked, providing a great view of the parts of my body that’d never seen the sun. I arranged it so it fell off one of my shoulders, to prevent giving James a peepshow.

  “So, what’s keeping you awake tonight? Don’t tell me that reading the gossip feeds couldn’t wait until morning,” James said, blowing on his tea to cool the liquid.

  I shrugged noncommittally from where I now stood, leaning against the wall between our bedroom doors. I wasn’t sure how deep I wanted this conversation to become.

  Maybe if I open up to James, he’d reciprocate. But was I actually ready to head down that road?

  I didn’t know the answer to that.

  Though I may’ve been curious about his time at the Circus of Wonders, I was still reluctant to open old wounds. Both his and mine. In the end, I settled on an ambiguous response.

  “I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “Vague and evasive, I like that. Is that your way of telling me to shove off?”

  “No. It’s the truth. I do have a lot on my mind,” I said.

  “Like what?” James pressed. “Please don’t tell me that you’re actually considering Riley’s shoddy plan to turn the tables on our enemies.”

  “I’m surprised you aren’t the one suggesting we go after them, take revenge on the Poachers.”

  As soon as I said it, I was painfully aware of my mistake. James’s thoughtful expression turned stormy the instant the words were out of my mouth.

  “What makes you think I want revenge?” he asked coolly.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  The last thing I wanted to do was stir up trouble or cause friction between James and Honora. Somehow, even with all the cogs in my brain churning triple-time, I couldn’t come up with a single intelligible thing to say.

  Stall. Change topics. Just say something. Anything. Silence is a dead giveaway. If he speaks first, he’s going to guess that Honora told you. Eight seconds have passed, too long, start talking. Now. Now, now, now.

  “Um, well, I just thought…you know…you really seem to hate that Jaylen guy. Like maybe there’s some bad blood between you two, and, I just know if I hated someone that much, I’d probably want revenge.” To stop the rush of babble, I gulped my tea. Freck. It was hot. Extremely, excruciatingly hot. The roof of my mouth began to blister instantly. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  “Do you want revenge on UNITED?” James asked, adeptly turning the proverbial tables.

  I blanched. Touché, I thought.

  “You aren’t too keen on their lot I gather. What with the way you go all doe-in-the-hoverlights whenever you see a news broadcast or read an article that remarks on them.”

  James eyed me critically, a hint of challenge in his gaze and the trace of a smirk on his lips.

  His lips look so perfectly soft, I wonder what— No, Kenly, you wonder nothing! Focus…

  Okay, so I wasn’t the only one with acute powers of observation. Then again, I also probably wasn’t very good at hiding my anger and distaste for the organization who had ruined my life.

  As I saw it, I had two choices at this junction. One, I ignore his inquiries about UNITED, just a
s he’d ignored mine about Jaylen Monroe, and we can keep circling one another, asking meaningful questions neither will answer. Or, two, I turn around, retreat to the safety of my bedroom, and put off this conversation for the foreseeable future. The choice was obvious.

  “Is it just because he’s a Poacher? Or is more personal than that? Did he do something to you specifically?” I knew I was on thin ice and should tread carefully. James had a temper. Though I hadn’t yet seen that full extent of it, rage perpetually bubbled just below the surface of his chiseled features, soft lips and sculpted abs. Maybe poking the beast was not a smart idea.

  Sadly, I was genuinely enjoying our verbal sparring, each of us seeing who could push the other to the breaking point first. And I was genuinely curious. Like I’d told Honora, the others were uncomplicated, easy to read, but James was a code I had yet to crack. And I really wanted to crack it. I wanted to know the secrets he kept so well hidden from the rest of the world.

  “Have you always hated UNITED? Or only since they destroyed your precious TOXIC?” he countered.

  I tried to keep my expression neutral, calling on every one of the tricks that Talia had taught me for remaining cool under pressure. The empathy that filled James’s platinum gaze as soon as the words left his mouth told me that I’d failed miserably. His features softened, the hard mask disappeared, and he seemed to truly regret the low blow.

  But he wasn’t the only one who’d struck below the belt, so I didn’t imagine I’d be getting an apology quite yet.