by T. C. Edge
Nothing’s innocent anymore.
The warehouses remain in operation for the most part. Despite everything that’s going on in the city, production continues through necessity, and it would appear that subsidies of clean water are being provided for those who operate here.
It makes sense I guess. The residents of Inner Haven rely on the food production that goes on here, and so aren’t exactly going to let that be affected by the state of suffering in the rest of Outer Haven.
Passing by a couple of warehouses, I get a glance inside the walls and security fences. Within, I note the strange mood that appears to have engulfed the place. There’s an order and rhythm to the workers that sets my teeth on edge.
Yes, it could just be that such people are efficient at what they do. But, in my mind, I can’t help but imagine that many, if not all, have already been reconditioned. That I’m looking upon an army of slaves, no longer free to think and act as they might like, bound by the reprogramming that Cromwell has put them through.
Perhaps that’s true, perhaps not. Maybe the workers in these plants and factories and warehouses have always been those taken in and reconditioned by the Consortium. It wouldn’t surprise me at all. Tucked away here in the east, hidden from the lively residential regions to the west and south, few would even know.
Or care.
We continue on in silence, moving further east, further back towards the quieter regions that always populate the perimeter of Outer Haven. The entire time, Zander continues to move with total concentration, a state of mind that has me keeping my tongue at bay and not bothering him with useless queries.
His eyes stay narrow as we go, our path uninterrupted. His men have done their work well, and his ability to recall the tiniest of details, and his supreme knowledge of the streets and their secret paths, have allowed us to arrive without any further hindrance.
Arriving at a factory that remains in operation, pumping foul air into the sky and clattering with an endless cacophony of metallic noises within, we work our way to the rear, sneaking through narrow lanes and reaching what appears to be a barred and unused door.
It looks so weather-beaten and derelict that anyone would suspect it hasn’t been used in many years, covered in rust and with vines and weeds creeping around at its base. Reaching it, Zander does a final check to make sure we’re in the clear, before moving his hand right past the door handle and towards its old façade.
He knocks, quietly and with a distinct pattern, on the rusted metal. Beyond, over the sound of the factory, I hear the patter of his knock descend down into the earth, echoing beneath the factory and into some subterranean place.
We wait a few minutes in silence. I wonder just what’s going on before, suddenly and to my complete surprise, a sound of grinding brick and cement issues from the left, a metre or two away from the door.
I let out a little huff of confusion and see my brother turn to me with a grin.
Then, the brick wall to the side of the door belches out a little puff of smoke and opens up just a crack. And from that crack, a voice comes.
“Zander?”
“It’s me,” says my brother.
The door opens further, moving inward, and the face of Rycard appears.
“Are they all here?” comes my brother’s voice.
Rycard nods.
“Good. Then let’s go.”
We step forward and into the darkness. Rycard gently shuts the secret door behind us, and I look upon an old metal staircase, descending into the depths at a steep and vertigo-inducing angle.
Following my brother, I keep my hand locked tight to one of the cold, metal railings to stop from tripping – at regular intervals, the stairs are uneven, bent by time – and even force Rycard to reach out a hand to steady me at one point as we descend.
“What is this place?” I ask.
My voice echoes into the darkness, replacing the sound of my heavy breathing.
“A meeting point,” whispers Zander in reply. “It’s a place that gives us access to Inner Haven.”
“You can get to Inner Haven from down here?”
I’m surprised, but I shouldn’t be. On several occasions, the Nameless have crept into Inner Haven unseen. It would appear that this is where they do it from.
My question doesn’t get a reply. Just a nod from ahead as we continue down, going deeper until the basement walls of the factory turn to earth and rock, and we enter into less formally built rooms and caverns that have clearly been cut for a single purpose – infiltration.
Now, the sounds of the factory have been dulled above, dampened by the thousands of tons of rock that creak and groan above us. Instead of the obvious assault to the ears, however, there’s a constant rumble, an incessant earthquake that causes the earth to shiver and sprinkle down little helpings of dust and grit from the ceiling above.
It doesn’t feel altogether secure, and the sight of the odd bundle of rocks to the left or right as we move down the passage suggests that cave-ins are a regular hazard down here.
There one in particular that we have to climb through.
Ahead, the tunnel beneath the factory seems to end abruptly. As we get nearer, I notice that it has been blocked by rocks, the ceiling above having dropped its heavy load on the path below.
Within the blockage, however, a small gap has been fashioned by those who navigate this perilous route. It’s barely big enough for a large man to work his frame through, with a few rocks moved to the side to provide passage through its dangerous jaws.
Being the dainty young thing that I am, I have less trouble than the others at sneaking through. Someone like Drum, however, would never make it.
My heart burns as I crawl through the gap. Each time some large piece of machinery in the factory above has a little grumble, the entire place shakes with a little more force. If that happens at the wrong time, and a single rock shifts out of place, game over.
No one’s powers, not even Zander’s, could stop you from being crushed by the onslaught.
Reaching the other side, I take a heavy breath as I drop my feet back onto the floor and turn around to help Rycard shift his frame through. As he exits the tiny space, I turn and see a gathering of what appears to be explosives set on the right and left, joined together by a thin wire.
Zander sees me looking.
“Failsafe,” he mutters. “You see that button…”
I look to the wall and see a little button at the top of a wire, linked to the explosives.
“Yeah.”
“If ever you’re being chased down here, give it a tap. The entire chamber we’ve just passed through will collapse behind you. Of course, it’s a last resort sort of thing, so hopefully won’t ever have to be used…”
“And this little gap? You made it yourselves?”
Zander nods.
“You can never be too careful.”
Yeah, perhaps not. But somehow I can’t but think that having explosives down here in such an unstable passage is a recipe for disaster.
But what do I know?
Relieved to get through, we continue on and soon reach a door. Once again, Zander goes through the necessary protocols, tapping away with the secret knock, and the door unbolts and opens up to receive us.
My eyes take in the scene.
Several people stand in discussion around a table. The walls are half rock, half brick and mortar, and partially hidden by boxes and other supplies of arms and armour. The ceiling hangs low, uneven in places and fixed with random light fittings that allow those without Hawk abilities to see down here in the darkness.
There’s a discussion going on, a tense one. It doesn’t seem to end with our arrival, the half dozen or so people around the table still talking in hushed but intense tones.
We walk in, past the main guard who gives us entry, and Zander turns to me.
“Brie,” he says, “there are some people I’d like you to meet.”
9
The people around the tab
le continue to talk as Zander runs through the introductions. Only when each are required to meet me do they stop and stretch out a quick hand, raise a smile, and then turn their eyes back to their work.
First up is a man I recognise from the previous night: Beckett. I never got to officially meet him during the meeting for all the leaders of the Nameless.
Gruff and only partially groomed, he turns his sleek eyes to mine and offers a strong hand. A single shake is all he needs. He seems like that kind of guy. Efficient. Impatient.
“Beckett is our most senior commander in the field,” says Zander. “He’s a powerful hybrid. Part Bat, part Hawk, part Sniffer, part Dasher. He’s almost got the full set.”
“Wow,” I remark. “So, your parents were both hybrids too?”
He nods sharply.
“Father was a Hawker – Hawk and Dasher. Mother was a Sniffer and Bat. We’ve got some stupid amalgamation for that too.”
He doesn’t tell me what it is.
“So you’ve got pretty good senses then,” I say, stating the damn obvious. “I guess that’s useful in the field?”
“Very,” he says. Or, growls really. His voice seems to be a perpetual bark, a symptom of his job as well, I suspect, as a lifetime spent with a cigarette in his mouth, or which there is one now.
I guess being a Sniffer, I’d have thought smoking would be a no-no given his heightened sense of smell. Clearly not.
“Beckett leads much of our forward military efforts,” says Zander.
Beckett huffs.
“Military efforts. More like covert operations. That’s all we ever do. We don’t have the manpower for military efforts.”
“He also takes some getting used to,” grins Zander. “And he never, ever smiles.”
Beckett’s scowl intensifies, and so does Zander’s grin.
“Anyway, this here’s Kira,” continues Zander, moving to the next attendee at this secret meeting. “You’ll have seen her last night too.”
“Sure,” I say, extending a hand.
Kira turns up from the table and takes it with a smile. Like Beckett, she’s got extremely sleek eyes, green as the toxic mist that continually assaults us, and red hair that makes her stand right out from the crowd. You’d think that wouldn’t be a good thing given her vocation as a spy.
Still, she has a range of abilities that make her extremely efficient at her job. Dasher, Hawk, Bat and Sniffer by all accounts. An equally awesome set as Beckett.
“So, you’re the eyes and ears out in Inner Haven, right?” I ask.
“That’s my role,” she answers with her smooth, velvety voice. There’s a joviality to her that I enjoy. A far cry from Beckett, that’s for sure. “I’m good at sneaking around, and can see pretty far. The best eyes in the business,” she adds with a little prideful smirk.
“Debatable,” says Zander provocatively.
“You wanna go, do you?” she asks.
Beckett raises his eyes and shakes his head. Clearly this is an on-going point of contention around here.
“Hey,” adds Kira, turning again to me. “Maybe little sis will give us all a run for our money soon enough. We girls have the better eyesight, you know.”
I like her immediately.
“Totally agree,” I say.
“And what would you know?” asks Zander. “You’re just a toddler....”
Both Kira and I glare at him. He’s forced to stand down.
“Nice to meet you, though, Brie,” says Kira before we move on. “Good to have another girl about the place.”
As she speaks, her eyes switch ever-so-subtly towards another girl a little way down the table. Girl, though, would be entirely inappropriate as a description of her.
Female, yes. Girl, absolutely not.
She’s colossal. Surely imbued with some old Brute blood. Not the size of a proper male Brute, or even Drum, but for a woman, she’s enormous. A towering six and a half feet at least and, if I was to compare her to anyone by her general size, it would probably be Rhoth.
She’s similarly structured too, her shoulders broad and trunk wide, with an aesthetic look to compliment her intimidating size. Her hair is long on top but shaven at the sides, flowing back and stuck close to her scalp by some sort of ointment. It’s a fairly bright blonde, almost white, and there’s a scar ranging from her chin to her left eye that suggests she, like many others here, have been in the wars.
It’s to her we go next, Zander approaching with a little more formality.
“Brie, I’d like you to meet Freya,” he says. “She’s our resident explosives and munitions expert. She can get us anything we need, given the time.”
A set of meaty fingers come my way, gobbling up my little hand. Her shake is almost sufficient to lift me right off the floor.
“Good to meet you, Brie,” comes a deep voice that has no place outside of a man. She smiles through etiquette, revealing a poor set of teeth. They come and go in a flash and her stern, austere façade returns.
“So, um, are you a hybrid too?” I ask.
I can’t help but do so with a few more nerves scattered among my words.
She shakes her head.
“My father was part Brute,” she says. “My mother, for all I know, was just a woman. I never met her, but have no other powers like the rest of this lot. So, she must have been just a normal woman.”
I don’t pry. I want to, given my natural and sometimes overbearing inclination to seek the truth, but don’t. Not with such a sensitive subject. And not with such a formidable woman.
“She’s a good soldier,” says Zander. He clearly has some respect for her. “Probably the best I’ve worked with, given she’s got no useful enhancements for combat.”
“You mean, Brute blood isn’t useful?” I query. “I thought it made you tougher. You know, tougher skin, thicker skull, etcetera.”
“Well, yeah, there’s that,” says my brother. “But a pulse round is going to cut through just about anything but the best armour, whether there’s a Brute underneath it or not.”
“And normal bullets?” I ask.
“Depends where they hit,” booms Freya. Her finger taps to the side of her left eye, its cool blue colour somehow going well with her white hair. It’s to the scar she’s referring.
“That was from a bullet?” I question.
“Yeah,” she says. “Lucky it only grazed me. Could have been worse. I kinda like it.”
She smiles again briefly. It disappears just as quick, as though she wants to relax but wont’ let herself. As if her appearance has crafted her this part as a stern and joyless woman, when in fact there’s a brighter soul buried underneath.
“It suits you,” I suggest.
I regret the words until that smile flashes again. And with it comes a little nod of acknowledgement and sisterhood that she probably craves.
In that instant, I think of Rycard, and turn to see him across the room in discussion with a guard. His scar is similar, only on the other side of his face. And, of course, it cuts right through his eye and not to the side of it.
It just goes to show that life is a game of millimetres. Another few to the right and Rycard would have maintained his Hawk-vision and would have stayed with the City Guard. Sophie and Maddox, too, would never have ventured with him to the underlands, never have joined the Nameless.
Such small things can lead to such large changes. You never quite know where some slight deviation in your path might lead you.
We leave Freya to her work too, and move on to a final person of interest for me to meet. This one hangs low under a skinny, tall frame, his ferrety features in shadow and partially hidden beneath a set of large glasses. He seems to be mumbling to himself as he looks through a series of papers and schematics.
“Alfred,” says Zander, drawing him from his own little world.
The man looks up in fright, his eyes dark behind his spectacles and hair black and lank, thinning in places and hanging down the sides of his face. There’s a gaun
tness to his cheeks, sunken and smattered with the occasional sprouting of hair, as if puberty never quite took hold with him and gave up halfway through.
His voice is another indicator of such a thing. It’s timid and shallow, and high pitched in places. He looks to be about 40, although could very well be younger.
“Y-yes Zander,” he says. “W-hat can I d-do for you?”
Clearly, he has a bit of a stammer too.
“Just introducing you to my sister,” says Zander. “Meet Brie.”
His eyes hover to mine but can barely connect for more than a split second. Instead, they choose to focus around my chin and neck as he bows a little and sends out his skinny digits, tipped with heavily chewed nails.
“Nice to meet you, Alfred,” I say, shaking his hand. Unlike the rest, his shake is feeble and weak, an unpleasant experience.
I slide my hand from his grasp as soon as I can and wait for Zander to take over the conversation.
He duly does so.
“Alfred here is the go-to guy when you want information. It can take a bit of time to get it out of him, but he’ll give it up in the end. Right, Alfred?”
He slaps him on the back, and the man collapses forward to the table before righting himself.
“R-r-right, Z-Zander…” he stutters.
My brother turns to me.
“He may not look like much, but the guy’s a genius. And he isn’t even a Savant, not a full one anyway. He’s got a photographic mind and, if Kira is our eyes and ears in Outer Haven, he’s our brain.”
“So, he’s the one who tells you the best routes through the city?” I ask.
It’s kinda bad that I don’t even note how we’re talking about him as if he’s not there. He’s just that sort of guy, lurking in the background.
“Him and the guys running security back at HQ. We have the drones we’ve reprogrammed and then Kira and her team. They work together to make sure we don’t miss a beat out there, feeding us the info we need. It’s a pretty slick operation.”
“Yeah, seems like it. So, is that everyone?” I ask, looking around. “Anyone else to meet?”
