by T. C. Edge
I suppose it’s something I should be more interested in, but my mind appears to be elsewhere. Mostly, I try to feel Brian out, get a sense of him by metaphorically dipping my toes into the water of his mind to see how sensitive he might be to my intrusions.
Each time his eyes flash on me, I creep in and try to determine his thoughts and gauge a little more of his personality. The sense I get is of a man with a stronger emotional core than most Savants, something that centres prominently around his caring for his wife.
I smile at the thought and look at Mary, busy in the kitchen. It’s nice to think that, having lived here for so many years, she’s at least had some happiness from the muted love provided by her spouse.
Adryan, clearly, is playing his part, however. His intention, he told me, was to converse with Mr Spencer about work, starting with himself. He’d be honest and open, and therefore blaze the trail for Brian to be the same.
The aim in doing so would be to properly determine the functions that Brian sees to, as well as butter him up a little bit so that, when I give my order, it will be more likely to take hold.
It was Adryan who came up with the idea, and a great one it was too. Already, as I listen to them speak and occasionally dip into Brian’s mind, I can see the various aspects of his work being drawn to the surface, ready and waiting for my orders to slip right in.
Things appear to be going well. Brian’s mind is primed and receptive. With a few subtle glances, I give Adryan the signal, and he politely asks if he can use the bathroom.
Brian grants permission, although isn’t required to point the way. Standing, Adryan turns his attention to the corridor leading to the front door, the bathroom just off to the right. My heart begins to pound a little, and my mind goes over and over the wording we decided upon.
As he drifts off, I glance up towards Mary, just now serving up the food in the kitchen. My eyes settle on Brian, sitting a few metres away on the opposite sofa. He works up a small smile, the best he can manage.
It’s a reasonable effort.
A heavy bout of nerves swamp me.
Come on, Brie. You’re alone. He’s primed. Give the order.
I take a gulp of air and find my fingers shivering as they reach for my wine. This doesn’t feel like before, like with Doctor Friel. That was proper life and death. That was proper desperation.
This isn’t. I can do it now, or during dinner, or after dinner. I have lots of time. Maybe I should wait?
No, Brie! You have him where you want him. Do it now! Do it now!
The silence is getting unbearable. It’s probably only been a few seconds but it feels like minutes have passed. Brian is still staring at me, perhaps noticing how uncomfortable I must look.
Get it together, Brie! Give the order, dammit!
Then his words come, and the silence is broken.
“So, Brie, how are you finding the High Tower so far?”
I’m distracted, thrown off the scent. I mumble out a fairly monotone answer, giving a rather good impression of a Savant. My words are automatic. My mind is still on the task.
This might be the one chance I get. I might not be alone with him again. What if he drinks more wine…maybe the order won’t take hold properly? I don’t know the ins and outs of it. I don’t know how alcohol affects it all.
Frankly, this is all completely new to me! I wish I had more training!
Another question comes from Brian’s mouth. No, a statement this time. He congratulates me on my performance during the attack on Culture Corner.
“I saw the footage,” he says. “You were very brave.”
He attempts another smile, and his eyes brighten. I look straight at them and know, now, that this is my one chance. Over in the kitchen, my Hawk-eyes scan Mary and see that she’s about to finish serving the food.
In the bathroom, I hear the tiniest sound of flushing, and know that Adryan will return momentarily.
Now or never, Brie. Now or never.
I make the decision, the pressure building. It gives me the resolve I need, and as Brian’s pale blue eyes shine a little brighter, I dive straight in, committing fully as I enter his consciousness.
Like Doctor Friel, like Zander, like Adryan, the interior of his mind is expansive. Outside, I know, time will slow. My body will be sitting there, and Brian’s will too, and we’ll be staring right at one another as Mary works in slow motion in the kitchen, and Adryan does the same in the bathroom.
I take a moment to look at the scale of Brian’s mind, and then recall for a final time the order I’m here to give.
With total and utter conviction, and seeing this as my one and only chance, I project the order as clearly and loudly as I can manage, and send it straight into the deep waters of his mind.
Tomorrow morning at work, you will secretly download the High Towers’ schematics, and all its security protocols, to a secure, untraceable, electronic file. You will tell no one, and let no one see you. You will erase all activity afterwards, and will bring the file to the western side of the gardens on level 10 at noon the same day. There, you will pass it discreetly to Brie Shaw, before leaving her immediately alone.
I say each sentence, project each stage of the order, with utmost intensity and clarity. I deliver the entire thing once, then twice, then a third time, letting it pulse from my mind to his, feeding itself into the back of his subconscious where, bit by bit, it starts to take hold.
Merging in with his natural memories and thought patterns, it settles where it needs to, an echoing voice that, when the time is right, will force his action. One last time, I call the order out, word for word, and then raise a smile on my face as I withdraw.
And when I reappear in the room, the smile sticks fast. I look at Brian, and see the mist dispersing across his blue eyes. And just as it does, as if on cue, the door to the bathroom opens, and Adryan comes wandering out. And Mary calls from the kitchen, telling us that dinner is ready.
Brian blinks a couple of times, shaking off the strange mental cobwebs in his head. But he won’t be able to shake them off fully.
He’ll act upon what I’ve ordered him to do. He’ll get me the files I need. He’ll hand them to me and forget it ever happened.
I have bent him to my will, enslaved his body and mind to my design.
And as that thought spreads through me, I feel a growing sense of power tingle in my fingers. And standing, I walk with Brian to the dining room, giving Adryan a wink and a smile as I go.
Then my eyes dart to the ceiling, and my eyes narrow with purpose, and a swell of barely earned bravado fills my veins.
I’m coming for you, Cromwell. I’m coming for you…
7
I feel buoyant that night, like I could accomplish anything.
Sitting opposite Adryan at the table, I ooze that sort of relaxed posture and confident body language that shows him in unequivocal terms that I completed my task for the evening.
At least, I think I did. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow…
He looks at me with those wondering eyes, and for a moment I wonder myself whether I can put a few words into his head, delivering them telepathically. Then I realise that only my brother and I have such a connection, and merely satisfy myself with an assertive nod that tells him all he needs to know.
I’m rarely chatty. Those who know me wouldn’t call me particularly loquacious. Sure, I’m not short of a word or two when I need to be, but I’m not exactly fond of being the centre of attention either.
That evening, however, I appear to hog much of the conversation. Refusing to allow the two Savants to monopolise it with their dull discussions, I choose to liven things up against protocol, bringing up more interesting topics such as hobbies and ambitions and any funny stories people might wish to share.
Brian, as expected, has little to contribute, and clearly finds the conversation somewhat outside of his comfort zone. Adryan, meanwhile, is happy to sit back quietly and let me enjoy myself, his own existence here hardly
allowing for the most exciting of anecdotes.
Although, if he told the full truth, I’m sure he’d have plenty to say. Living life as a spy, after all, is hardly what you’d consider ‘normal’.
In the end, I manage to mostly extract information from Mary regarding her old life back in the southern quarter of Outer Haven. She’s careful, of course, to make it absolutely clear that she loves living in the High Tower – mostly, I think that’s for Adryan and my benefit: him because, well, he’s a high ranking Savant; and me because she doesn’t want to put me off my burgeoning life here – but she can’t help but speak with some affection about her youth as well.
Turns out, my guesstimation of her age was more or less on the money – she’s 42 years old – and that she’s been living in the High Tower since she was just 20. A full 22 year stretch, then, in this towering shell, surrounded by all these blank faces.
I don’t tell her how much the idea repels me.
It’s certainly interesting hearing her talk of her old life, though, and the family and friends she left behind. I don’t have to read her mind to see how much she misses them, despite suggesting on multiple occasions that she doesn’t.
“I get to see them occasionally,” she says. “You know, special occasions and things like that…”
She doesn’t say exactly what special occasions she’s referring to, but I assume birthdays are fairly likely.
The reason she doesn’t specify is probably down to the fact that birthdays are not celebrated here, and living here, she’s probably been expected to consider them redundant as well.
The subject of family, however, also serves to extract all life and joy from the evening. I foolishly make the mistake of asking Mary and Brian if they have any children. Again, the expression that adorns Mary’s face is one of deep sadness, hidden beneath a forced smile.
Yet her eyes tell the story. They’re clear windows to her pain.
“We have three children,” says Brian.
When I look at him, I don’t see the same expression. His features are bland and relaxed. There’s no coil of pain, no wrinkle of heartbreak there.
Not like this wife.
“Two girls and boy, I believe,” continues Brian.
He looks to his wife for confirmation. She nods silently and I see the earliest signs of a tear starting to shine in the corner of her left eye. When her husband looks away, and Adryan and I avert our eyes, she quickly dabs her finger to her eye to remove the brine.
I shouldn’t see, but I do. My Hawk-eyes miss nothing.
Brian seems to be somewhere stuck between caring for his wife and yet not recognising the signals. He appears to have no idea of how she’s feeling, his ability to observe and identify human emotion severely lacking.
And so, on he goes, unearthing more grief, his words like a wrecking ball to her heart.
“You will obviously be aware of the policy here regarding children, Brie,” he says, addressing me. “Savant children aren’t raised by their families, but in communal nurseries. It better allows us to focus on our work. So, yes, we had three children, but know nothing about them…”
I turn again to Mary with pitying eyes.
She will have had to suffer having three children torn from her loving arms. She will have had to hide her grief, lock it away in a deep prison, stoically get on with her life and pretend it didn’t matter to her. Fulfil her requirements as a lady of the Unenhanced, give up her offspring without making any fuss.
But what’s more, she will have been working in the nurseries, looking after other children, her own no doubt taken to be raised in another nursery to ensure no strong bonds developed.
I search her pained eyes and see the flash of a memory. See her walking around the communal areas any chance she gets, looking for her daughters or son, searching for young men and women with similar features to her, to her husband. Searching for some sight, just a quick look, at the children who were taken from her.
And as that memory blooms, so does that feeling of pain.
And looking at her, all I say is: “Sorry…”
She smiles weakly back, and sets firm her expression again. Stoic, strong, enduring this harsh world without a single complaint. She shouldn’t have to live like this.
No one should.
And then, brightening her eyes, she looks around the table and smiles more widely.
“Who’s still hungry for dessert?” she asks.
Her husband nods his consent. I look to Adryan, who carries a different complexion. He knows. He understands. He isn’t like the rest of them.
“I’d love some. Thank you, Mary,” he says softly. “And what a delicious dinner it’s been.”
She takes a sharp breath, fighting back the desire to unleash her grief, and darts off out of the room towards the kitchen. No one goes after her. I assume it happens a lot. The poor woman must cry herself to sleep every night.
And that evening, when we return to our apartment on the floor above, I can’t help but cry myself, betraying my promise to not do so until the job’s done.
The image of Mary, wandering through the communal levels, desperate for some sight of the children that might be hers, sets itself to the front of my eyes.
And breaks my heart.
Sitting by the transparent wall, I look upon the entire city with a heavy sense of grief. I never considered that these powers I have could be such a burden. That aside from my super-sight and super-speed, and the ability to manipulate minds, watching and feeling the pain of others is a terrible curse to endure.
Mary’s pain, if only briefly, has become mine. A deep, pulsing ache that makes anything I’ve ever felt appear as nothing by comparison, a minor cut next to a gaping gash.
To never truly know your children. To have them stripped from you. It is the most inhumane thing of all.
As my cheeks grows wet, I feel Adryan’s arms pull me in. I let him hold me, comfort me, and purge myself of this borrowed pain, of these tears that aren’t meant for me.
I feel foolish somehow, my emotions ragged and uncontrollable. And with Adryan gently stroking my wavy brown hair, I turn my eyes up to look at him, and utter some words that make no sense.
“You wouldn’t let that happen to us, would you?” I ask weakly. “If we had a child, you wouldn’t let them take it?”
His silver eyes turn to strong metal, and he shakes his head.
“Never, Brie. That’s exactly what we’re fighting for.”
And then I realise again, that this isn’t real. We’re not really married. He doesn’t really care about me. This isn’t going to have a happy ending.
I know that all too well.
And there’s nothing I can do but make my peace with it.
Then I feel his fingers fall from my hair to my cheeks, and his metal eyes melt. And in a sudden motion, he guides his soft lips to mine, and kisses me for the first time of his own free will.
It last seconds only, but it’s enough to catch me in his spell. And when he leans back again, he does so with a smile.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he says. “And not because Lady Orlando has ordered it. Not because the Nameless want it. Because…because I want it.”
His words stop the flow of tears down my cheeks. His eyes grow hard again, forcing mine to do the same. And together, we turn our gaze to the glowing night, and enjoy a period of silence.
A comfortable silence, with no need for words. One where we think, and recharge, and get ready for the next battle.
Because that’s all my days are. Battle after battle.
And the next one is coming up fast.
8
The smells that spread around the gardens of level 10 are a welcome change to the scent of disinfectant. Having spent plenty of time in Inner Haven over the last month, the latter is something I’m getting used to, and given my time living in the smoky halls of Carmichael’s, I suppose I can’t complain.
In fact, I could probably tell you wh
ere I am in the city just with a quick sniff. Each quarter over in Outer Haven carries its own unique odour, and Inner Haven smells entirely different from all of them. The underlands and outerlands, too, produce their own special signatures.
Here, though, on level 10, I’m reminded only of the house in the southern quarter, where Sophie sees to the training and transition of girls set to marry up. There a fresh and natural smell to the air, a purity that you simply don’t get anywhere else.
Just wandering through, I feel more alive than ever, my blood pumping up with extra doses of oxygen. And along with it, the flow of adrenaline is also present, building and building as the minutes pass, and the changeover from morning to afternoon arrives.
I’ve been here for an hour now, just wandering around and soaking up the atmosphere. It’s fairly sparsely populated, which is another reason it appeals to me so much. Clearly, the Savants feel that they have better things to be doing than to wander through these beautiful gardens, the very nature of the place lost on them.
Yet, some do come to reinvigorate themselves. Perhaps that’s another reason for this level, to help provide a pulse of energy when required.
They come with tired eyes and appear to suck in as much clean air as they can, taking deep breaths as they take a short walk, letting the life-giving air fill their lungs and saturate their bodies. Then, when they leave, do they so with an extra spring to their step, ready to take the rest of the day head on.
As it nears noon, however, I work towards the western side and towards the large windows. The view from here is, naturally, far less impressive than up on level 51, and my sight across Inner Haven is rather weakened as a result.
Yet still, the wide streets beyond the High Tower, stretching away to the west, are visible, the large courtyard around the platform seemingly about to go through a few temporary changes.
By the looks of things, some form of official staging is being constructed, much like it was during the ceremony to honour myself and my compatriots from Outer Haven. The reason for this new development is clear – tomorrow, in the late afternoon, Commander Fenby is going to be descending from on high to address the City Guard.
