The Enhanced Series Boxset

by T. C. Edge

  Outside, a series of long vehicles line up, blacked out like Sophie’s car and waiting to transport us to the ball. After a final pep talk from Sophie in the hallway, we step onto the streets to something of a fanfare.

  I’m shocked to find the roads filled with people, a sizeable host having gathered to see us off. I see some of the girls beaming at certain individuals, making me think that a large portion of them are family members and friends.

  Instinctively, my eyes run over the faces to see if Tess or Mrs Carmichael are present. The mere fact that such a thought entered my mind is ludicrous. I chuckle to myself as I near the cars and prepare to step in.

  Yet, one person does draw my eye. Hidden amid the throng, I note a cloaked figure watching me, eyes shining beneath his hood. He looks quite out of place among the well-manicured members of the southern quarter, but serves to draw the only natural smile to my face since I entered this part of town.

  Zander and I share a quick look, and he offers the tiniest of nods, before disappearing into the sea of bodies once more.

  I suppose Lady Orlando sent him to check up on me or something. After all, she did say they’d be keeping their eyes on me…

  I’m rather happy for it, though. The mere sight of my brother sets my mind back to the task, reinforcing what I’m here to do. This is a mission, nothing more. And tonight I take my first step into the abyss.

  And so, as the crowd cheer us off, we all enter the convoy of cars, and begin whirring away northwards towards the nearest gateway along the wall. Sat with another four girls, I turn my eyes to the window and do nothing but look out. At the neon lights drenching the streets. At the people, all of them different, all of them unique. At the vibrant, busy world I’ve inhabited all my life.

  I flash my eyes to the girls, all chatting excitedly in a group and buoyed by the send-off, and find it hard to make out who’s who.

  Over the last couple of days, I’ve heard all their names. A few have stuck – Amelie, Jasmine, Nadine, Bridgette. Yet looking upon them now, those names could belong to just about any of them.

  They’re dressed the same. They look the same. They sound and act the same. Preparing for life among the Enhanced, it seems, comes down to a single thing: turning away from your own identity. Forging yourself into a clone.

  And what troubles me the most, is that they all do it so willingly. For so many around here, this is the greatest of honours, the highest of callings. To join the superior race, and give life to superior children.

  Slowly but surely, we’re being phased out. Marrying up. Reconditioning. Creating Con-Cops and other slaves. All methods by which the Consortium are reducing our numbers, and growing their own.

  It’s all been before my eyes all along, I just didn’t see it. Incremental changes, performed over decades, designed to indoctrinate an entire people.

  And if we don’t stop the rot, soon enough there’ll be no normal humans left. As it is when any superior species is born, those they left behind don’t last long.

  And right here in Outer Haven, the Neanderthal dwells.

  I turn back away from the girls. I can’t stand to look at them. My eyes drift to the looming wall as we approach and pass through, and the outer street of the Spiral as we join it, cruising around and circling the city as we edge closer to the core.

  The girls gasp and glue their eyes to the windows, looking upon it all for the first time. Their chatter slows at first as they do nothing but gawp, before picking up again soon after as we venture deeper into the cold confines of Inner Haven.

  They try to pick out people on the streets, wondering what sort of Enhanced they are. They look upon men, who themselves all dress and look so similar, and wonder who they’re set to meet this evening.

  As we drift around the coiling street, and the buildings gets more grand and impressive, they begin to bicker, each suggesting that they’ll find the best husband, that they’ll live in the largest home, that they’ll breed the finest children.

  Sophie said it wasn’t a competition, but these girls are most certainly competitive.

  I don’t engage with them. I merely stare at the surroundings and think again of who I really am. When we reach the final leg of the Inner Spiral, the sight of Savants appears, flowing about with dull eyes and faces, an alien race that part of me is born from.

  The girls ogle them in wonder; little knowing that one sits beside them. It’s a thought that would never compute in their minds, just as it doesn’t in mine.

  I begin to wonder: when my gifts start to appear, and when my body starts to change, will I lose my emotions as they do? Will I become an empty vessel, lacking the emotions that make us human?

  Were in not for my brother having walked this path before me, such concerns might be valid. As it is, they’re little more than bubbles on an otherwise flat lake, popping as they break the surface and disappearing for good.

  And yet, somewhere at the bottom of that lake, a fissure is burning.

  And those bubbles continue to rise…

  33

  Compton’s Hall is so named after the woman who devised the concept of the bachelor ball, Layla Compton.

  According to Sophie, she was a Savant of some esteem, who made it her life’s duty to learn how to best integrate the Enhanced and Unenhanced, and ensure that the numbers of Enhanced didn’t dwindle.

  As one of the founding members of the Council of Matrimony, she began the system of scouting and testing to find suitable Outer Haveners to promote. Among the Enhanced, she’s considered an important figure.

  I don’t see her in the same light.

  Of course, the hall that took her name is, like all Savants, a rather drab place. Gathering outside on the southern side of the Innermost Spiral, and with the High Tower looming above us, I look upon the square structure with a flat expression that would make any Savant proud.

  If they could feel pride.

  With white walls and not a hint of colour, it carries very few embellishments but for the pillars that line the entranceway. Beyond them, large doors of sleek metal offer passage into the foyer, and the main hall itself beyond.

  I know all of this from Sophie’s teachings and the pictures of the hall she mounted on the slideshow. Seeing it in real life makes it no more interesting.

  The other girls, on the other hand, are looking around open-mouthed and wide-eyed. However, it’s not Compton’s Hall that’s attracting their attention, but the High Tower itself, soaring into the low clouds above.

  That I can understand. The High Tower is a frankly magnificent structure, and while I’ve seen it before, it’s no less fascinating on second viewing. Its sheer scale is astonishing, and its circular shape and domed roof – invisible today with the low collection of clouds – are quite striking from an architectural standpoint.

  As the girls gaze upon it, Sophie hovers over to me, and delivers a subtle little wink. I suppose, given how we’ve been here together before, it’s supposed to signify some sort of affinity or bond between us.

  “How is it being back here, Brie?” she asks. “Excited?”

  “I can barely contain myself,” I say flatly.

  “Goodness me. If you can’t get excited about this, then I fear for you, I truly do.”

  “Hard to get excited when you know the outcome,” I mumble.

  “What was that?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’ve just got a bad headache is all.”

  “Still? Oh, I’m sorry, Brie, that’s terrible. Here, gulp these down and they’ll get you through. What a shame…usually these pills are enough to knock any ache on the head all day, if you’ll excuse the pun.”

  She hands me a couple more pills. They’re speedily swallowed.

  “Right, ladies,” calls Sophie, turning to the girls. “It’s time to go inside to the foyer. You’ll be addressed by Mrs Humbert and ticked off the list along with all the other entrants. You know the rest, we’ve been through it plenty of times. Now come on, follow me, the High Tower isn’t go
ing anywhere.”

  The girls reluctantly drag their eyes from the colossal structure and we begin moving towards the hall. Passing the pillars, other groups of girls join us, led by their own versions of Sophie.

  The crowd gets bigger as we reach the doors and pass through into the lobby, the room filled with an endless stream of false smiles and blue dresses. I feel like little more than a bee in a hive, identical to the rest and buzzing about in little teams of twenty.

  Sophie directs us to a station to the left, where several women – all of them Unenhanced by the colour of their clothing – take our names and give us a number.

  I’m passed the number 83, which I’m told to stick to my chest.

  The numbers system is used to help the Enhanced easily identify us, given how similar we all look. Names are more easily forgotten, so if an Enhanced takes a fancy to one of us, they merely need to jot down the number instead.

  Should several Enhanced choose the same girl to court, then they’ll win the fair maiden’s hand based on hierarchy among their ranks.

  And who said they couldn’t be romantic? I scoff to myself.

  Looking around the lobby, I note that every single attendee is female. Given the higher numbers of male Enhanced, there is no such need for male members of Outer Haven to marry up into their ranks. Around here, the female Enhanced are generally well catered for by their own kind, and have plenty of men to choose from.

  Occasionally, if there’s call for it, a smaller event will be held for spinsters rather than bachelors. But they’re few and far between.

  With the time ticking quickly towards 7PM, the crowd begin to hush. All eyes begin turning to the double doors leading into the main hall, in front of which stands a short woman with a more than ample coating of flesh.

  From where I am, I can barely make out her face, let alone the expression of her eyes. Yet the colour of her clothing is sufficient to mark her out as a Savant, the light grey fabric adorning her frame signifying her position at a glance.

  And on her chest, beneath her collarbone, the symbol of the city is just about visible, with the innermost circle coloured white.

  “Good evening, ladies,” she begins, her voice flat and smooth and a further signifier of her status. “My name is Ingrid W. Humbert, and I am High Secretary of the Council of Matrimony. It is my honour to address you here this evening, and introduce you to your first taste of life in Inner Haven. With any luck, many of you will become permanent residents, and will go on to serve our people well. It all begins tonight.”

  A little round of applause begins as Mrs Humbert pauses, and a ripple of excitement spreads across the sea of blue.

  “Now, in a few moments you will go inside the hall, and there you will await the men you are here tonight to meet. Your chaperones will have told you exactly what to expect, so you’ll know that the process is simple. All you need to do is be yourself, ladies, and the men will do the rest. Good luck to all of you.”

  She nods her head, before attempting one of those false smiles that the more cordial Savants use to humanise themselves. Then, as the lobby works up a fresh applause, the doors behind her open, and the main hall comes into view.

  Stepping aside, she waves her arm in the direction of the grand, open space. And with Sophie whispering: “Go on, it’s time,” behind us, we begin moving with the rest of the groups of girls into the ballroom.

  All in silence but for the shuffling of feet and the hushed whispering of dozens of excited girls, we move as one and spread into the open space. I take it all in in one glance. Really, it isn’t much to look at.

  Wide and open, and yet adopting the same colourless visage as the outside of the building, the place is little more than an empty space. A viewing platform for the men of Inner Haven to look upon us and consider who they wish to speak to. That, really, is it’s only purpose.

  Remaining in our teams, we follow the procedures we’ve been taught, and move to our assigned points. For us, that’s the far corner of the hall on the left.

  There, we find one of the few points of interest in the room: a table lightly decorated with little snacks to nibble on, and an assortment of drinks from which to choose.

  The offerings are sparse, however, particularly with regards to the drinks. Yet, to mark the occasion, each table is fitted with 20 glasses of champagne, a drink I’ve yet to try. As required, we all pick one up before standing to the side of the table in a line.

  The same goes for each group of girls, spread around the room. All holding our glasses, we stand in silence as our chaperones perform one final inspection.

  “Good luck,” says Sophie, standing before us like a mother sending her children off for their first day of school. The pride exuding from her is palpable, if a little misplaced.

  For my part at least.

  Her eyes scan us, one by one, just to make sure all our dresses are in order, and our makeup hasn’t smudged or hair fallen out of place.

  Given my experience over the last couple of days, I expect her to come forward and completely rearrange me. As it is, her eyes pass over me as they do the rest, before she nods, satisfied that we’re all ready to go.

  Then, behind her, a little horn sounds, calling for all the chaperones to depart the hall.

  “Good luck!” she whispers again. “Knock them dead!”

  Then, with a hasty step, she scuttles off towards the exit with the rest of the escorts.

  A short silence follows, the room swallowed up by a deathly hush. My eyes scan the room and see no movement at all, but for the occasional shuffle of nervous feet. Standing third in line of our group – our group is numbered 81 to 100 – I turn my eyes to the door and wait. All eyes linger on the same spot.

  By now, we all know the procedure. It’s about to go down.

  Above the door, a large clock ticks silently. It read 6.59, and 34 seconds.

  We watch the second hand tick round, inching northwards towards the summit. Time-keeping here is so precise. They’ll surely enter on the dot.

  When the second hand ticks past 56, and 57, and 58, and 59, we collectively hold our breath and a deeper silence falls. Then, as expected, as the minute and second hands move together to point due north, and the time hits 7PM, the door creaks open once more.

  And through they come.

  Each wears a black suit, and each holds a glass of champagne in their hands as we do. All of them have short hair, neatly cut, ranging in colour but all styled the same. They march through the passage like a troop of soldiers, spreading into the hall and stopping in the centre, where they line up the same as us, looking out at the many groups of gathered girls.

  I conduct a quick count, and note that there are far fewer of them than there are us. Perhaps a scale of 3 to 1 in our favour. Although, such odds are not in our favour at all.

  It’s one of the few things Sophie neglected to tell us. Only a third of the girls here are likely to come away with a man. The rest are going to be bitterly disappointed.

  It’s not a competition, she’d said. I doubt the girls here are seeing it like that, judging by the looks in their eyes.

  As the black-suited men come in, I note a few others at the back, half a dozen or so, hidden in their midst. They stick out like trees in the empty desert, dressed in the same suits and yet conspicuous for the different colours they adopt.

  Not black, but light grey.

  They must be Savants.

  Others stick out for very different reasons. The towering and hulking figures of Brutes, looking so odd dressed up so fine, dot the throng, drawing the eyes of many of the girls. For sheer spectacle, they’re quite something to look at.

  I’d prefer to draw the line at just looking, though.

  Others carry the intense countenance so common among Hawks, eyes already searching the faces of the surrounding girls closely for features they might find attractive.

  Then there are Bats, and Sniffers, utilising their own super-senses to determine who they might wish to greet firs
t. The former will be able to hear heartbeats, the rise and fall of a girl’s breathing as they look upon them. The latter will indulge in the many personal scents and odours in the room, zeroing in on those they find most appealing.

  The more fidgety must be Dashers. I suppose their abilities will allow them to greet more girls more quickly, speedily working the room before the hourglass runs dry.

  Quite what appeal the Savants bring, however, is beyond me. Prestige, I suppose, and nothing more. For many of these girls – perhaps even most – that might just be the most critical factor of all. There can be no higher calling for one of these ‘ladies of the Unenhanced’ than creating little Savant children.

  A loveless union, no doubt, but a prestigious one. For the girls, at least.

  It takes a few minutes for all the men to enter the hall, and wander towards the centre. Once they’ve all gathered, the doors close once again and, as one, the Enhanced all raise their champagne glasses to the air.

  With their glasses aloft, they dip their heads in respect, before each taking a sip. That’s our cue to do the same. All around the room, the hundreds of girls follow, raising their glasses, bowing their heads reverently, and then bringing the flutes to their lips.

  I taste the cool, fizzy liquid, and consider it far nicer than the whiskey I’ve been forced to drink recently. Then, lowering my glass back down along with all the rest, we set our eyes back on the men before us, and wait.

  Procedure has been followed. All traditions have been observed.

  And now the games begin.

  34

  The men begin to move.

  Within moments, the room has altered its shape, the centre now emptying once again and the Enhanced spreading out like water from a burst dam. Many, it would appear, have already chosen their primary targets. They waste little time in making their introductions.