by T. C. Edge
The creation of Savants was just the next step. Areas of the brain were unlocked, creating people with supreme mental capabilities. From there, the sky seemed to be the limit, the human mind outstripping the pace of the natural evolutionary order, people playing God.
Then, God fought back.
Wars were raged with these new fighting forces. New weapons were constructed by the Savants. Cities were decimated. Biological warfare spread, leaving much of the world uninhabitable and toxic. Across the globe, billions died, and the world began to fall into a growing darkness.
And yet, from the ashes, some remained, and even thrived. The Enhanced, led by the Savants, came together and the city of Haven was born, closeted in an area once known as America across a stretch of land unspoiled by the chaos that tore the world to shreds.
They built the city up into its two component parts, giving Outer Haven to the Unenhanced, and keeping Inner Haven to themselves. A symbiotic relationship was formed. We perform most of the work, and they provide security and protection, keeping us safe from any outside threats.
Truly, they need us as much as we need them, their main goal now to create a prosperous world once more. To clear the toxic wasteland beyond our borders, and rebuild the once great nation we shared.
And it’s within that context that their devotion to logic comes to the fore. When the species is under threat, emotion needs to be taken out of the game. As rulers, that is their job, their role. But down here, in the bustling world of Outer Haven, our civil liberties and freedoms are maintained. And while they no longer enjoy such things themselves, they appear to understand that, for us, they’re essential elements of life.
I suppose it’s necessary for them to humour us in that sense, given what we do contribute. I can’t imagine the Savants coming down here and growing the foods they eat, or performing the manual labour that needs doing. They think things up, and we put them into action. That’s the division of labour.
Right now, the highest priority among their ranks seems to be clearing the nearby woods and forested regions outside our borders. To the west and south, vast swathes of land lie waiting to be cultivated and used. If, that is, they can be cleared of their toxicity. As it stands, they’re making some progress, but it’s slow, and much of the land outside of the city remains beyond our reach.
Most striking, perhaps, are the mountains to the northwest. On clear days – of which there are few, owing to the mist that perpetually hovers over the lands – they can be partially visible, grand natural formations way off in the distance.
Only from on high can you really see them, and for me that means hiking over to the eastern quarter, all the way on the other side of the city, where the land rises up a little. From there, the shape of the earth beyond our borders is more visible, something that’s always held a strange allure for me. A yearning, perhaps, to find out what’s out there.
And then, when my eyes lift up to the High Tower, I feel that pang of jealousy. From up there, they can see far and wide, way over to the mountains and the forests and woods. Maybe even to the coast, far to the east, beyond the swamps and old relics of crushed cities that scatter the earth.
It’s just another perk of life as a Savant. One that, ironically, they probably don’t even appreciate. Devoid of any deep emotion, I wonder what they feel when they see the towering peaks, and imagine how prosperous the world once was?
Do they feel anything at all? Anything beyond a desire to see our species prosper? They may think they’re more evolved, more advanced, but that’s not how I look at it.
To me, they’re handicapped. To me, they’re inhuman.
As far as I see it, advancing the human race isn’t what they’re doing. Because they’re not human at all.
5
Before Drum can plod off with our half-eaten bowls of gruel, he lumbers onto the bench in front of us to take a break at our invitation.
For all his physical strength and size, he’s rather lacking in the mental side of things. There’s a perpetual look of puzzlement on his face, something that’s certainly hindering his attempts to find work. Occasionally, he’ll perform some basic manual labour jobs – work for which you’d think he’d be ideally suited – but even those are few and far between for someone like him.
As it is, his time at the academy is likely running short. He’s been of working age for over a year now, and with work in such short supply, Mrs Carmichael will have little choice but to offer his bed up to someone else soon enough when one of the youngsters comes of age.
It’s a sad state, really. Aside from Tess, Drum is my favourite person here. I’ve known him for years, and from the first day I met him was endeared to his nature – despite his colossal size, he’s of a quiet and shy disposition, a gentle giant if ever there was one.
Truth be told, he’s like a not-so-little brother to me.
As he lowers himself onto the bench, his deep but quietly spoken voice rumbles from inside his cavernous body.
“Are you OK?” he asks, finding it difficult to make eye contact as the question drops from his plentiful lips.
I can’t help but smile at him. Not one of the other inhabitants of this place has asked us how we are, except Mrs Carmichael of course. All of them are far more interested in hearing about what happened, and none have even made reference to the cuts on my forehead, or the bandage wrapped around Tess’s upper right arm.
His eyes, however, linger on our war wounds, growing tight with concern as they inspect us.
“We’re both fine, Drum,” I say. “But thanks for asking.”
“Yeah, it’s just a scratch,” adds Tess, tapping her fingers on her bandage to show that there’s no pain at all.
A smile builds up on Drum’s face, and his dark brown eyes grow a little brighter.
“Good. I heard the explosion from here,” he says. “I didn’t know you were down there, though. Was it…scary?”
Now that is a question we’ve fielded all evening. I haven’t yet given a truthful response though, telling the kids that it was more exciting than scary. I guess that’s what Mrs Carmichael would prefer me to tell them. She won’t want any of the more easily frightened ones having nightmares.
Drum, however, deserves the truth, and before Tess can offer up her usual bravado, I say: “I was scared, yeah. Had we been a few metres closer, we could both be dead.”
Tess nods to my side. Drum’s eyes crinkle up a little tighter.
“But it’s all OK now,” I make sure to add. “I’m sure it won’t happen again.”
“You really think so?” asks Drum. “Was it the Fanatics?”
“Yup,” says Tess. “But security’s going to be much tighter now. The Consortium will no doubt send more Enhanced down, more of the City Guard. More damn eyes on us.”
“That’s a good thing though, Tess. More Hawks, in particular, to keep an eye on things,” I say.
“Good and bad. We don’t exactly want loads of Enhanced wandering around do we? These are our streets, not theirs.”
I shrug. “As long as it makes the people more safe, I’m on board. At least temporarily.”
As we speak, Mrs Carmichael’s craggy old voice barks from across the room.
“Drum, break’s over now. Come on, there’s clearing up that needs doing.”
Drum nods subserviently. “Yes, Mrs Carmichael. Sorry, Mrs Carmichael.”
I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as polite as he is.
He rumbles to his feet and moves off, continuing to fetch more empty and half-eaten bowls. His hands and arms are so big he can accommodate many more than anyone else. If he wasn’t so large, finding work collecting plates in a restaurant might be easy. Unfortunately, his size makes him clumsy. I’ve lost count of the number of things he’s broken around here.
Mrs Carmichael watches him closely as he gets to the point of overloading his arms.
“Careful now, Drum. If you drop those, you pay for them.”
“Yes, Mrs Carmichael,�
� he says again, before plodding off into the kitchen.
“I’m not sure he’s long for this place,” says Tess, shaking her head as we watch him go. “I know Brenda has a soft spot for him, but she can’t give him special treatment.”
Tess, unlike me, will occasionally use Mrs Carmichael’s first name, depending on the circumstances.
I watch on wistfully, knowing she’s right. I doubt how long he’ll survive out there on his own. His size could make him a target. A lot of people have an intense dislike for the Enhanced, and a kid as big as Drum will only draw attention.
As he disappears, Mrs Carmichael comes trotting over.
“You must be tired, girls. I suggest you go and get some sleep.”
“I’m happy to help clear up,” I say.
“No need for that, Brie. You’ve been through plenty today, and deserve a break. I’ve made sure that your work tomorrow has been passed onto someone else.”
“You mean, we get a day off?” asks Tess excitedly.
“You’ve earned it. Just relax, and hang out here at the academy.”
She breezes away, gathering up the youngsters in a bid to send them off to their dorms. Unlike us, they stay in groups of 6, squashed into tighter quarters. It’s a good way of getting more of them off the streets, but sure does lead to some raucous behaviour.
Tonight, I suspect, they’ll be discussing the events down at Culture Corner long into the early hours. It’s something not even Mrs Carmichael can police.
As she struggles to round them all up, Tess and I begin making our way upstairs to wash and get to bed. Physically, I feel exhausted, and yet mentally there’s a freshness that I’d rather wasn’t there. Any time a period of quiet dawns, my mind is once more filled with the sounds of screams and the sight of blood and the smell of charred flesh and suffocating smoke.
Most of all, however, it’s the strange feeling of having another person inside my head that lingers the most. The sense that my private thoughts, something that no one should ever have access to, have been violated and inspected.
I’m sure that Deputy Burns merely looked for my memory of the attack. Nothing else would be of interest to him. But still, it leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth that I know a good night’s sleep won’t be sufficient to eliminate.
Upstairs, Tess and I take it in turns to use the basic shower. It’s shared between all those on the top floor, barring Mrs Carmichael, and for the most part has a limited supply of hot water.
Most evenings it’s a fight to get there first and make use of the warm water while it lasts. Tonight, Tess and I are given first dibs.
“I could get used to treatment like this,” remarks Tess as she comes out, draped in a towel, her skin pink and glowing from the heat.
I quickly take my turn, and enjoy the somewhat rare sensation of warm water trickling down my spine. After only a few short minutes, however, normality resumes and the water goes tepid, calling an end to my brief period of bliss.
Back in our room, I find Tess already tucked up in bed. Her eyes, though, remain wide open as I brush my teeth and drag my nightclothes over my skin, before hopping into bed.
Clearly, her mind is just as busy as mine.
“So, what do you want to do tomorrow?” she asks.
The first thing that comes to mind is: “Sleep.”
“Yeah,” she laughs. “I could sleep for days I reckon.”
“Same here,” I say.
We’re both lying.
Because as the lights go off, and we try to fall asleep, I know we’ll both find it hard. Tess, usually a light snorer – or heavy breather, according to her – makes it very clear when she’s sleeping. For several hours that night, locked in the darkness, I don’t hear a peep from her.
I lie up against the wall, keeping my glowstick beneath my blanket to douse its light, and stare at my parent’s fading faces. I run through the usual routine that I have to perform before dropping off, which mostly sends me into the land of nod with cracked images of my long gone parents in my head.
And of other things, of another life I might have led, a whole world of possibilities where my imagination can run wild.
It’s a symptom of life for any orphan, especially those like me who know nothing of where they came from. A chance to escape reality, if only for a while, and live in the imagined world created by your subconscious.
For some, it’s the only way to get through the day…just waiting for the night.
Yet that night, my mind doesn’t conjure false images of some imagined reality. It doesn’t spend its time considering what my life might have been like had I grown up in a more conventional family.
No. That night, it’s the sights and smells and sounds of the attack at Culture Corner that dominate. Each time I drop off, they swarm all over me, causing me to wake at regular intervals with my body drenched in a cold sweat.
And while the youngsters down below might be excited by such an event, being there was a very different experience. One that, right now, I’d rather forget.
6
The morning brings with it a chill that’s more bitter than any I’ve felt in a while. Peeling off my blanket and sodden nightclothes, I’m quick to dress in my warmest winter attire, before sitting back down on the bed.
A few minutes later, Tess stirs, breaking from a sleep that was probably just as troubled as mine.
“What time is it?” she coughs, shivering underneath her covers.
I scoop up my old watch from the bedside table.
“7.30,” I say.
“Arg…why does my stupid body wake me up so early.”
“Habit,” I mutter, as she rolls over and tries to get some more sleep.
I don’t do the same. Frankly, I’m happy to be up, and would rather not give myself over to my subconscious again, keen as it seems to be to torment me with the carnage from yesterday.
Damn subconscious…
Instead, I leave Tess to her rare lie-in, and head downstairs for breakfast to find Drum hard at work in the kitchen, utilising his mighty strength as he stirs a giant pot of porridge. This week it’s his turn to prepare breakfast each morning.
“Need some help?” I ask him breezily.
He seems surprised to find me down there. Recently, I’ve been starting work too early to make breakfast, and have been dining out on those tasteless protein bars instead.
The porridge isn’t any better, but at least it’s warm.
“Hey Brie,” he says, showing off his ginormous gnashers through a smile he reserves for me. “You should rest. This is my job. But thanks for asking.”
“Really, Drum, I don’t mind. I’ll serve. How about that?”
After a brief bit of haggling he agrees, and I begin ladling portions of porridge into bowls. As I do, the noise outside in the canteen begins to grow as the kids come pouring in with an excessive amount of energy.
It’s obvious they’re even more excited and talkative than usual.
As Drum scoops up a few bowls to serve, I tell him to stay and that I’ll handle it. I know he gets teased by the kids, and when they’re in this sort of mood, they’re only going to be more irritating.
As I emerge from the kitchen, however, I realise that perhaps I haven’t thought this through. Immediately, I’m harassed again for further retellings of the previous day’s events, something I’m completely unwilling to relive.
This time I’m not so polite. I tell them in no uncertain terms that they’ve heard all they’re going to hear from me on the matter.
Thankfully, I hold just enough authority around here to calm them, only one or two throwing lacklustre obscenities my way for my trouble. I eye up a particularly difficult child, Brandon, who’s usually the chief stirrer among the louder boys, as a couple of swear words drip off his youthful, 13 year old lips.
“I heard that, Brandon,” I say, glaring at him. “Don’t make me tell Mrs Carmichael on you.”
That’s enough to shut him up. Mrs Carmichael has a stran
ge aversion to swearing, especially among the younger members here. The younger they are, the worse her reaction.
It’s ironic, really, because she’s not short of the odd curse word herself. Especially after a glass or two of whiskey.
I try to keep busy that morning. Once breakfast is all over, I help Drum with the washing up, and we chat a little about his working prospects.
“I heard they need more workers on the outside,” he says. “You know, clearing the woods…”
“Drum, no way are you doing that!” I say. “You know why they need more workers for that?”
He shrugs.
“Because workers die all the time,” I say. “It’s dangerous out there, you know that.”
Work outside of the borders of Outer Haven is notoriously dangerous, and mostly considered a last resort for those in desperate need of money or rations. Generally, it involves clearing the toxic woods and lands beyond our borders, labour that the Unenhanced see to. Monitored, of course, by the Enhanced.
Even inside protective suits, people regularly get sick and end up dying from the suffocating toxic fog. And that’s not all they need to worry about. Outside of the city, other threats linger too…
It’s upsetting that Drum’s even considering it.
“Promise me you won’t go down there and sign up,” I tell him. “We’ll find something better for you. And you’ve always got Tess and me. You know that, right?”
He nods.
“Say the words, Drum.”
“I promise,” he mutters.
I step in and give him a short hug, failing as usual to wrap my arms around his gigantic trunk.
As I return to my room later than morning to take my pills, I make a note to talk to Mrs Carmichael about Drum.
Again.
Unfortunately, it’s a conversation I’ve had with her many times before. Try as she might, she’s found it hard getting him any sort of regular work. His size, clumsiness, and general simple-mindedness make him unappealing to most employers.
Back in the room, Tess appears to have roused herself. Looking fresh, and dressed up warm, her eyes sparkle with the promise of having the remainder of the day off.
