by T. C. Edge
As we stand there, a figure stands out amid the rubble and debris in the middle of the square, sweeping in with a couple of armoured Brutes to his sides.
He wears a light grey suit, the sleeves tightly bound around his long arms, the collar buttoned up tight to the top of his neck with his head sprouting from the opening. A neat covering of perfectly manicured brown hair adorns the top of his head, his expression detached and unwelcoming.
There’s nothing decorative about his appearance at all, save the small insignia that sits on the middle of his chest below his collar: three circles, one inside the other, each signifying the three main classes of people in the city – the Unenhanced, the Enhanced, and the Court.
The innermost circle is coloured white, indicating that he’s a Savant, a member of the Court. The other two circles, representing the Enhanced and us, the Unenhanced, are coloured black.
The Brutes to his flanks carry the same insignia on their armour. Only, with them, the middle circle is white and the other two are black. Often you’ll see members of our own Council of the Unenhanced here in Outer Haven with the same badge. With them, of course, it’s the outer circle that’s white, proof of their more lowly standing.
Overall, it’s a quick and easy way to determine what class a particular city servant or official belongs to.
Even without the insignia, however, I’d know this man was a Savant. It’s in the eyes, pale blue, showing no emotion at all. His expression, flat and cold, even when looking upon a scene of such devastation, makes it clear that this man has little empathy for what’s happened here.
Yet, this sort of attack is unprecedented, and so here he is. Only when something extreme happens do any members of the Court appear, sent down here by the Consortium to ensure that public order is maintained. This man, however, is not from the Consortium from what I can tell. Within the class of the Court, their own hierarchy is determined by the colours of their clothing. Wearing light grey signifies that he’s high up, but not at the top of the tree. If he were, he’d be draped in the purest of whites, the blank, colourless attire reserved for those of the Consortium.
Never before has one of their rank come here to Outer Haven. As far as I know, they remain at the summit of the High Tower, and rarely even venture out into the streets of Inner Haven. For them, even meddling with members of the Enhanced is probably deemed an act of impurity. I can’t imagine what they’d feel like if they had to endure where I lived for a day or two.
But of course…they don’t feel at all. How stupid of me.
As I watch the man enter the square, I wonder what type of Savant he is. All Savants have supreme intellect, and all are members of the Court. Yet within their ranks, some rare specimens can be found, those with additional mental abilities that boggle a simple mind such as mine.
I’ve heard of those who have the power of telekinesis, capable of moving things with nothing but their thoughts. Around here, they’re known as Mind-Movers, and exist as little more than rumours heard on the streets and among the youngsters of the academy.
Others apparently have the gift of telepathy, the psychic ability to communicate with each other through their thoughts. I’ve even heard about them being able to read minds, sneaking into people’s heads and seeing their innermost thoughts play out in front of them. We call them Mind-Manipulators.
Given that such powers exist in the mind, there’s no way to determine what other gifts a Savant might have purely by looking at them. Brutes are easy to spot for their colossal size and heavy, plodding demeanour. Hawks have intense eyes that glare and rarely blink. Savants – other than the detached and neutral expressions that adorn their faces – have no physical traits that call them apart.
By the look of the man, however, his role is within the City Guard. Most likely one of their senior members, overseeing the various Brutes and Hawks and Dashers who keep watch over the residents of Outer Haven to make sure we stay in line.
Mostly, they tend to do just that – watch – and not take an active part in dealing with most criminal activity. That is the domain of our own police force here, who are tasked with maintaining law and order. When a larger state crime occurs, however, the Enhanced and City Guard will get involved.
Clearly, this is one of those.
I find myself strangely transfixed by the Savant, so rarely are they seen. Tess, too, doesn’t utter a word as we just stand there, watching him passing along orders with a cold detachment. From around the square, other members of the City Guard rush over to update him on what’s been happening.
One of them, who I recognise as the Dasher who briefly engaged with Tess and me, swiftly darts to his side. As he speaks, his eyes wash over the square, before landing on us. A finger quickly rises up and points us out, and the eyes of the Savant land squarely upon us.
I feel my pulse quicken as I lock eyes with him. Even from this distance, it’s like looking into a void, a deep well, emptied out of any emotion or feeling.
With a casual and yet efficient walk, he begins marching in our direction. I share a look with Tess. Is he coming to talk to us?
Part of me wants to sink back into the crowd and disappear, but we stand our ground. As he glides in closer, his eyes never leave us. Try as I might to reciprocate, I can’t. I find myself looking away, his unblinking eyes making me strangely uncomfortable.
When he arrives in front of us, he stops and attempts to raise a smile on his thin lips. It’s all wrong. The shape of his lips and the relentless, disconnected staring of his eyes is completely incongruous. As if the upper and lower parts of his face are reading from entirely different scripts.
An attempt to humanise himself, perhaps, and display some emotion for our own benefit. Frankly, it doesn’t work at all. It merely makes him appear even more creepy.
“Good afternoon, ladies. My name is Leyton Burns, Deputy Commander of the City Guard. I am told that you have been aiding us in the clean-up?”
Arg. Clean up. Even his wording is off. He makes it sound like someone’s spilled a can of paint or something. Maybe it’s all that red blood…
“Yes, Deputy,” answers Tess, putting on her ‘respectful’ voice. “We’ve been doing what we can.”
“And we thank you for it,” says Deputy Burns, attempting to lift his smile a little higher. I cringe at the sight. The partial monotone quality to his voice is also rather unnerving. “I am told, too, that you witnessed the explosion?”
“We did,” answers Tess.
Deputy Burns nods, staring now directly into Tess’s brighter blue eyes. She frowns and recoils a touch.
“Please, don’t move,” says Deputy Burns. “Stare right into my eyes. This will only take a minute.”
I can see Tess struggling to do as she’s told. His odd, staring eyes peer deep, his entire body still as a statue. I watch on, unable to look away from the strange scene, as Tess’s breathing grows a little more abbreviated. Then, suddenly, Deputy Burns seems to come back to life, leaning back and nodding.
“Good,” he says.
Then he turns to me.
“What was that?” I ask, noting the strange expression on Tess’s face, as if she’s just waking from a dream.
“I searched her hippocampus to trace her memory,” he says. “It’s the centre of memory and emotion in the brain.”
He looks to me, and then seems to remember he’s speaking with an Unenhanced. “To put it simply,” he adds, “I read her mind to see the event for myself from her viewpoint. Now, please be still.”
Once more, his eyes seem to lock in place, going completely still as they stare right into mine. I feel like I’m involved in the most intense staring contest ever conceived, something that the kids play back at the academy.
I was never very good at it.
Right now, though, I have no choice. I hold my hazel irises on his pale blue ones, and try to ignore everything else that’s going on around me. Within seconds, my eyes begin to ache, and I feel a strange sense of constriction in m
y head, as if my brain’s being squeezed in a vice.
It’s as though I can feel him in my head, poking around and searching for the right memory. It’s an invasive and unpleasant act that leaves me feeling a little violated. A person’s memory is the most sacred part of them. It’s what makes them who they are. No stranger should ever be invited in.
Mercifully, it doesn’t last long.
Slowly, the darkness that encloses my vision fades, and the world comes back into view. I look at Deputy Burns, and see the first sign of some expression on his face. A little frown hangs over his eyes, his otherwise pristine forehead ever so slightly wrinkled.
“Tell me. What is your name?” he asks me, a curiosity in his voice.
“Brie Melrose,” I say.
“And where do you live, Brie?”
“We both live at Carmichael’s Academy,” I say. “Her name’s Tess Bradbury.”
His eyes move to Tess briefly, before coming back to mine.
“I see. Well, I thank you both for your time today. Please, continue with your afternoons. We will take it from here.”
He performs a courteous little nod, inspects me for just a second longer, and then turns on his heels and glides off again, accompanied by his two guards.
We watch him go, and for the first time since he approached, I feel myself beginning to breathe normally again.
“That was…weird,” says Tess. “I didn’t like that at all.”
“Nor did I,” I say. “I feel like I need a shower.”
Tess manages a chuckle, but quickly realises it’s completely out of place for this particular situation. Surrounded by corpses, this is hardly the place to be caught laughing. More than anything, though, it’s a chuckle of awkwardness. And I know exactly how she feels.
Still standing there, a croaky call sounds behind us.
“Girls! Girls!”
We turn together to see Mrs Carmichael come shuffling along on her old legs, wearing a threadbare old maroon dress and scruffy leather jacket. Her eyes are in stark contrast to those of the Deputy, filled with turmoil and worry as she rushes on.
“Girls, you’re OK! Oh thank God. I heard about the explosion…I can’t believe it…”
She sweeps us both into her arms, locking us in tight, the stench of tobacco that she carries along with her briefly overpowering the odour of scorched flesh and smoke that continues to linger in the air.
Releasing us, she quickly gazes upon the minor wounds we carry, before inspecting our eyes in a wholly different manner to Deputy Burns. Then, it’s to the man himself that her eyes move, turning to him as he continues to coordinate matters on the other side of the square.
“Who was that man?” she asks intently.
“Deputy Commander of the City Guard,” says Tess, looking at him once more with an element of fascination.
“A Savant? A member of the Court?” asks Mrs Carmichael quickly.
“That, and more,” Tess says. “He was a Mind-Manipulator.”
A hint of concern shows in our guardian’s eyes.
“He read your minds?” she asks, looking directly at us with a frown.
“Yeah,” I say. “He wanted to see what happened from our viewpoint. Nothing major.”
“That’s all?”
“Yup,” remarks Tess. “It was kinda weird. It didn’t hurt or anything, it just felt, I don’t know, I can’t think of the word…”
“Intrusive,” I offer.
“Yeah, that’s it. Intrusive. Like finding some random person in your bedroom, rooting through your personal stuff.”
Mrs Carmichael takes a breath, but continues to look concerned.
“Is something wrong, Mrs Carmichael?” I ask.
She seems to right herself, pulling her lips up into an awkward smile.
“No, nothing. I’m just…as long as you girls are OK, that’s all that matters to me.”
She pulls us into another hug, displaying far more affection than normal. Mostly, she’s fairly tough, not the type to cry or get emotional about things. It’s a symptom of the job, really. Half of those who come to the academy will end up back on the street later in life. Getting too attached to us isn’t usually part of the job.
It’s clear, however, that those she’s known the longest are quite dear to her.
She turns from the scene, seemingly unwilling to spend too long looking at it. Or maybe it’s the Deputy who she’d prefer to avoid. Her views on the Enhanced, and the Savants in particular, are fairly well documented around the academy.
“Come now, girls. You’ve done all you can here. Let’s go back home. You can tell me all about it there.”
With a rare haste – Mrs Carmichael doesn’t tend to do anything quickly these days – she ushers us away from the scene.
Sparing one final glance at Deputy Burns as she goes.
4
That night, Tess and I are the talk of the town.
Well, the academy at least.
Our mere presence down at Culture Corner that morning during the explosion would have been enough to garner plenty of interest from the youngsters. The fact that we actually helped out, and spoke with a Savant – and a Mind-Manipulator at that – is likely the most exciting news to be shared around the occupants of Carmichael’s for many a year.
Most of all, however, it’s the fact that we actually had our minds read that causes the biggest stir. Around here, the mere existence of Mind-Manipulators and Mind-Movers has always been considered little more than rumour. Now, we have definitive confirmation that such beings are out there, capable of mental feats that are, frankly, frightening.
Sitting in the drab and dreary canteen at dinnertime, we find ourselves being constantly harassed by the ground floor dwellers of the orphanage. At first, we have no problem in telling our tale, recounting the day’s events as the children gather round, hanging on our every word.
For the most part, I take the lead – Tess isn’t much of a raconteur – giving the kids the essentials of the story without going into too much gory detail. I know that Mrs Carmichael wouldn’t want them hearing of such things. And, well, I’d rather not think about them either.
By the time I’m done with the first round, however, several others have gathered, some coming in half way through the story and others appearing right at the end. Naturally, I’m begged to tell it again.
When a second telling turns into a third and fourth, however, I’m beginning to grow weary of it all. Each time, I provide less detail and skip through the events without much enthusiasm. Truth be told, it’s not exactly something to be enthusiastic about, seeing so many good, innocent people die.
Yet, there’s no denying that it was exciting. Around here, little of note happens, years passing by without any sort of incident to rival what happened out there in Culture Corner. And for these kids in particular, such an event is likely to provide enough fuel for months of gossip and rumour and little re-enactments when it comes to playtime.
The appearance of Mrs Carmichael, however, is enough to douse the flames, her mere presence bringing some semblance of order back into the room.
“Come on now, kids, leave the girls alone. They’ve been through enough today as it is.”
The kids scatter, giggling as they return to their old wooden tables and benches, tucking back into the gruel that is the most regular feature of our dinnertime diets. Occasionally, if we’ve had a good week or month, or it’s a particularly special occasion – such as a leaving party for one of our senior members after getting granted a housing licence – we will have a more hearty meal.
Some nice soup for starters, perhaps, followed by a bit of proper cooked meat, like chicken, along with potatoes grown over in the agricultural district in the east of town. Then, if we’re really lucky, a bit of cake might be passed around. Chocolate is my favourite.
But that’s rare. Mostly, it’s the processed gruel that we have to endure, tasteless and runny, but containing all the vital nutrients the body needs.
&
nbsp; Apparently.
Given the self-sufficient nature of the academy, it’s the kids in transition who generally take charge of cooking and serving the food. They plod around, fetching our empty bowls when we’re done, some of them sneered at and mocked by the kids beneath them. Soon enough, some of those kids will reach working age. When they can’t find work, they won’t be sneering anymore.
One of the transitioners, however, plods a lot louder than most. As Tess and I quietly discuss the day’s events, in private now, the sound of heavy footsteps behind us precedes his presence.
Before he even reaches the table, I know who it is.
We both turn to see his meaty hands reaching out to scoop up our bowls.
“You done?” he asks, his voice like a foghorn.
Tess quickly inspects the remains of her bowl and offers a look of disgust.
“Yeah, Drum, I think we are.”
Drum, of course, isn’t his real name. His proper given name is Josh, I think. Frankly, it’s been so long since I heard anyone call him that that I can’t be sure anymore. Even Mrs Carmichael uses his nickname.
It’s his gigantic frame, you see. That heavy footfall of his, and the steady pace he tends to keep. Basically, it’s like hearing a drum beating as he walks, and you can always hear him coming before he appears.
For a boy of 16, he’s simply gigantic. I swear there must be some old Brute blood in him, maybe from a good few generations ago. Surely, somewhere back in his family tree, a Brute got together with a regular Unenhanced, and somewhere down the line, Drum popped out.
Really, he’s that big.
It wouldn’t be too hard to believe, to be honest. Enhanced and Unenhanced have bred for generations, all the way back to when the Enhanced were first created.
Back then, hundreds of years ago, they were simply the result of genetic engineering. Science experiments to create ‘superior’ beings for the military, humans modified for war. Soldiers and scouts and things like that. It’s in their blood, and that’s why the Brutes and Hawks and Dashers still primarily work in that same field today.
