by T. C. Edge
And set my eyes back on my parents, staring at me as a baby.
17
The following couple of days trickle by like a slow moving stream.
Days off are rare enough. Having several in a row is unheard of, and something I’m not conditioned to. I can already feel myself getting restless.
Under strict orders from Mrs Carmichael, however, Tess and I spend our time within the academy, keeping to our room for much of it and feverishly discussing the events of the previous few days.
When I tell her about my little night-time walk after getting back from Inner Haven, she suggests that it was little more than my mind playing tricks on me.
“Brie, you were drunk, it was probably just a shadow or something.”
“I wasn’t drunk, Tess. That was you. And I think I can distinguish between a shadow and a creepy human under a coat.”
“Fine. Just a Disposable then who’d come down from the northern quarter. You’re asking for trouble if you wander those alleys at night.”
“You should have led with that,” I say. “Makes more sense than being chased by a shadow.”
“Chased? Don’t be so dramatic, Brie. You just got spooked and ran into a bin. Serves you right for being such a wimp!”
Her comment warrants a pillow to the face. I just wish it was something harder.
Across the city, the latest attack sends a real shudder through the ranks of the population. A fear begins to spread, and we learn that people are beginning to stay in their homes, afraid of being caught in a blast. Mostly, it’s illogical to think like that – in a city this vast, the chance of being anywhere near an attack is extremely slim – and yet that’s the nature of fear.
It warps the logical mind, wipes out rational thought.
All over, reports come in that more City Guards are being spotted on patrol, and that the Con-Cops are truly out in force, casting their dead and Savant-like eyes across the city streets, vigilantly looking out for any hint of a new attack.
The number of dead from the warehouse bombing is also reported. It’s the opposite picture from what we saw at Culture Corner. There, the number of dead was vastly outstripped by the number of injured. At the warehouse, however, more were killed, with only a handful of people left alive.
Across the city, the regular sound of funeral bells can be heard, a sorrowful soundtrack that fills the air each day. From early morning until late evening, the bells are regularly rung, families and friends saying goodbye to the dead, their loved ones consumed by fire at one of the many crematoriums scattered throughout Outer Haven.
Cremation is the only means of disposing of the dead now. There’s no space for burials, not even for headstones. Many years ago, such customs were lost. Now, it’s even rare for ashes to be kept, urns a rarity and found only in the homes of the more devout and spiritual families living here.
It’s one of the many policies of the Savants that has spread among our own people. For them, the dead serve no purpose. They feel no sentimentality for those no longer able to contribute to the living world, their minds directed at nothing else but re-building the species, recolonizing the world; looking forward, not back.
Now, even Unenhanced have learned to think in the same way. When the dead are gone, they’re gone. You honour them with a quick funeral, and then that’s that. Life goes on.
Only, for some of us, we never got that funeral. We never got to know those we lost. Here at the orphanage, the concept of loss takes a different form. It’s what binds us all together.
As our second day of captivity ensues, fresh reports tell of new waves of graffiti popping up across the city, the southern quarter in particular being besieged.
Promises of new attacks are written in bold print, warning the people to change their ways or face the consequences. A spokesman from the Council of the Unenhanced comes forward and tells us that everything is in order, and that all is being done to apprehend these Fanatics and prevent any further atrocities.
No one believes them.
That night, I go in search of Drum once more. This time I find him, hunched on his bed, covered in dust and dirt. He’s alone.
“Been keeping busy?” I ask as I enter, shutting the door behind me.
Since taking over my job for the last few days, he’s been almost entirely absent from the academy, returning only to sleep and eat before setting out again.
He nods wearily. A boy of his size will be expected to work hard. I’m sure his client is working him like a mule.
“I made a few mistakes,” he mumbles. “Broke some furniture when I was moving it. They said they’d take it out of my pay.”
“Is that why you’ve been working so late? To make up for it?”
He nods again. I can tell he’s worried. He’s had a few jobs before, but the clients are rarely satisfied. This might just be his last chance.
“I wouldn’t even have this job if it wasn’t for you,” he says. “When Mrs Carmichael lets you out again, I’ll be back here…I know it.”
“You don’t know that, Drum.” I move in and lay an arm around his wide shoulders. “It’s good that Mrs Carmichael thought of you first…and who knows, maybe I’ll be stuck here a little longer.”
“She only did it cos she owes me,” he says.
He cuts himself off, twisting his neck to look a little away from me.
“What do you mean, owes you?” I ask.
It’s unlike Drum to say such a thing. He’s always been so grateful for being here, and has never spoken a word against our guardian.
“Nothing,” he says, closing off.
It’s not nothing. I know it’s about what he saw…
“Where were you the other night?” I ask him. “When I got back from Inner Haven, you weren’t here.”
“Oh, yeah…how was that, by the way? I haven’t seen you since then.”
He’s trying to change the topic. He’s not usually so crafty.
“Boring,” is all I say. “You were out with Mrs Carmichael weren’t you?”
His bushy eyebrows lower.
“No,” he says.
It’s so obvious when he’s lying.
“Drum, I can see right through you. I know you were out with her, because I heard you in her room. She told you to keep quiet about what you saw. Don’t lie to me now, Drum.”
He shuffles uncomfortably, and the entire bedframe shifts a few inches across the floor.
“I, um…fine, I was with her.”
He stops short, trying to give himself time to form some sort of story.
“I went to the black market with her,” he says eventually, suddenly speaking with more confidence. “She needed to get some things, and asked me to go too.”
“You mean, to the northern quarter?”
“Yeah, exactly. You know how she takes me with her sometimes. It’s dangerous there. She likes to have a bodyguard.”
Now this isn’t a lie. In the past, she has been known to take Drum with her when she heads to the market. Mostly, it’s where she picks up her stocks of cigarettes and alcohol, as well as the diabetes pills she gives me.
Carrying that sort of load home can make you a target for thieves, especially if you’re just an old woman. And taking Drum along for the ride is a way to deter anyone from mugging her.
Personally, I’ve never liked it much. Drum, for all his size, is only a boy, and a timid one at that. When he goes along, it only means I have two people to worry about, rather than one.
I’ve never complained to her directly, though. I mean, she’s getting my medication after all, so I can’t be ungrateful. I’d just prefer to go myself, to be honest, rather than putting either of them in harm’s way.
“So, that’s what you were talking about?” I ask him. “In her room…that’s what she told you not to tell me?”
“Yeah,” he says quickly. “She knows you don’t approve, and told me not to tell you. That’s all it was.”
He’s lying.
For one, he’
s doing that shifty-eye thing that he does when he’s not telling me the truth, his murky brown eyes dancing around the room, looking at just about everything but me.
Secondly, it just doesn’t make any sense. Sure, she knows I don’t approve of her taking Drum, but that’s never stopped her before, and it won’t in the future. Frankly, she does what she deems right, and doesn’t care two hoots for anyone’s opinion.
“So, you two just went to the market, that’s all?” I ask. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you Drum? You know you’re like a brother to me, don’t you?”
I lay on the sentiment nice and thick. I can see the battle raging behind his eyes.
“I’m…I’m not lying, Brie.”
“Promise me.”
“Promise,” he mumbles, looking at his giant feet.
I have no choice but to accept it. Frankly, if it were that important, Mrs Carmichael would surely tell me.
More to the point, I heard Drum promise to keep the secret, and don’t really want to make him break it. In a way, it’s nice to know that he can be so loyal to the woman who gave him sanctuary.
And on top of that, I suspect that he’s only got this job right now because he’s willing to prove that loyalty. If he should tell me, his last chance at keeping his spot here might well be gone.
And above all else, that’s the last thing I want to see happen.
So I accept, and tell him I believe him. The relief in him is obvious, a long breath let out from his lips.
I guess, if I want to know, I’m going to have to find out another way…
18
“I’ve had enough of this. I’m going out for a walk.”
I’ve reached the end of my tether. I can only stay cooped up inside for so long.
“You can’t,” says Tess. “Brenda said…”
“Oh…really, you’re going to use that line now!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you didn’t seem to mind last week when we went down to Culture Corner. You were all for just going and not telling Brenda then…”
“That was different. We’re all, you know, famous now. It might be dangerous.”
“Dangerous? How? It’s daylight! And since when did you care about that?”
She shrugs, all snuggled up in bed with her nose in an old book. Clearly, she’s just being lazy. Unlike me, she’s been thoroughly enjoying this time off.
“Look, I’m not asking for your permission, Tess. Just…cover for me if someone comes calling. Unless you wanna come too?”
I don’t know why I bother asking. She looks about as comfy as it’s possible for a person to be, and outside it’s bitter cold.
“I think I’ll stay here,” she says, to no one’s surprise.
“Suit yourself.”
I pull on another jumper to protect against the cold, and head downstairs to grab my jacket from the closet. Since being blasted by the acid rain several nights ago, I haven’t taken a look at the damage. Other than a few extra burn marks where the anti-toxic wax had worn off, it’s not too bad.
With the hall clear, I quickly slip out and pass onto the street, the surge of cold air immediately wrapping itself around me. Dragging my hood over my head to ensure I remain hidden from prying eyes, I set off on a stroll towards the market, several blocks west towards the boundary wall of the city.
The market, unlike the black market in the northern quarter, is an official place of trade, and is therefore heavily monitored. As I go, I note the additional security on the ground, and in the air, Con-Cops and City Guards stationed at populous areas, and armed security drones buzzing about in the sky.
It’s all on another level from what I saw the day after the attack at Culture Corner, an impressive show of strength for sure. Yet, it begs the question of just how these Fanatics are operating under their nose.
Surely, with such a presence, a few crazed Unenhanced should find it impossible to function? You can barely walk more than a few metres without coming under the scrutiny of some sentry or security drone, hovering above your head and scanning the world below for any hint of revolt.
It certainly makes one thing clear: these Fanatics are far more organised and dangerous than anyone gave them credit for.
And in my head, the words of the mystery man once more spread.
The Fanatics are not who you think they are…
I press on, sucking in cool air from underneath my cowl, noting how the streets have changed in my brief absence. It’s not a physical change, per se, but one of atmosphere. It’s as if there’s a blanket over the city, trapping in the sense of fear that shivers and hovers about the streets.
People walk around with wary eyes and sunken faces, checking and re-checking anyone who appears suspicious. There’s a questioning, probing ambiance, no one quite sure who might be a Fanatic or where another attack might come. Even with such security measures on show, that sense of fear remains fixed to people’s hearts and souls.
And as I walk, I feel their worry seep into my own veins, the city suddenly so claustrophobic, so cloaked in dread. And with that feeling comes another.
I’m being watched again…
It’s different from last time, though. The streets are busy, the sky bright if a little misty. The neon signs glow and the holograms dance and entertain us as they jump from their projectors. It’s completely unlike the dark alley, the quiet solitude.
And yet, I feel the eyes on my back, and turn to inspect my surroundings.
So many people, so many moving bodies. An impossible task to check them all.
I press on, walking a little faster, working my way towards the usually burgeoning market. Not today.
Today, it’s quiet and slow, almost as many police as there are customers and merchants. A marketplace, of course, is yet another signal of our apparent greed, a place to buy all manner of goods to provide pleasure and joy.
I hadn’t really thought of that. It’s a prime target for the Fanatics.
I hover around the edge and don’t go in, feeling stupid for forgetting to bring that blue dress to sell on. The market fills a large open square, set up with dozens of little pop-up shops that are packed and unpacked by their owners each night. Here, a lot of the food produce that they manufacture over in the eastern quarter is sold, along with the various other products deemed ‘appropriate’ by our masters in Inner Haven.
Unfortunately for Mrs Carmichael, cigarettes and alcohol aren’t among them. With our species so under threat, products that have the capacity to kill you are generally considered to be outlawed.
Still, they clearly don’t understand the human psyche. Take something away from us, and we’ll continue to make it on the sly. It’s the very reason why the black market continues to do such a good trade.
Quite why Mrs Carmichael gets my pills there, though, I’ve never worked out. Medications are readily available throughout the city at a number of places, although I suspect that they’re a little more expensive when bought ‘over the counter’. Buying them at the black market is probably just a money saving exercise.
As I do a quick circuit of the market, still hidden under my hood, I note a few Con-Cops looking at me in a funny way.
“You there, come here,” one tells me.
I have no option but to obey.
“Why are you hiding under that hood? Take it off.”
“It’s cold, sir,” I reply.
“Do it.”
I pull back the cloak and reveal my face.
“I know you,” says the man, his dull eyes moving from my chin to my forehead like a robot. “You were at the ceremony.”
“Yeah…and I’m trying to keep a low profile.”
He glares at me through his shark-like eyes. All Con-Cops have them, black and sleek. It’s a side-effect of the therapies they go through, turning them into loyal drones with more in common with the Savants than us.
“Well, you can’t go hiding your face like that,” he says. “Not at a time like this. You coul
d be mistaken for one of them.”
“A Fanatic?”
“Yes. Please remove it.”
“But I told you…I don’t want people seeing me. I just want a quiet walk…”
“Do it,” he says, cutting me off.
A breath of exasperation escapes me.
“Fine…you’re the boss,” I say sarcastically. “I bet your life was better when you were a criminal…” I add under my breath.
“What did you say?” he growls.
I roll my eyes and slide my finger across my lips.
“Nothing,” I say flatly.
An ominous buzzing sound crackles down by his waist. My eyes sweep to the source and an immobiliser appears from behind his inner jacket.
“Say one more word,” he warns, “and I’ll zap you. I don’t care who you are.”
I stare right into his black eyes, open up my lips, and mouth one of the curse words that Mrs Carmichael is so keen for us to avoid.
Then I step back, smile smugly, and turn away.
A rushing noise behind me has me turning straight back. I look down and see his arm outstretched, the immobiliser only inches from my body. There’s a hand around his wrist, gripping tight. I follow it to a tall frame, and then up to a face, and see Rycard staring right at the man.
“Now, officer, let’s not go causing any unnecessary problems,” he says calmly, his piercing eyes cutting right into the Con-Cop’s black ones.
The Con-Cop is quick to draw back his arm and fix his immobiliser to his belt.
“Sorry, sir,” he says. “I am only acting under orders.”
“And what orders are those?”
“To act upon anything suspicious. She was wearing a hood and acting disrespectfully.”
“Hard to act respectful to a guy like you,” I challenge. “For all I know, you’re a murderer or a rapist.”
The man doesn’t respond or react. If the rumours are true, not even he’ll know what he did to deserve this life of servitude. Apparently, the criminals have their memories altered to make them more subservient as part of the process.
So, he could be a murder or rapist, or he might have just stolen some food to feed his family, a family he won’t remember.
