The Enhanced: Book One in The Enhanced Series (A Young Adult Dystopian Series) Read online

  The Enhanced

  Book One

  T. C. Edge

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Book Two - Hybrid

  This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, events, and incidents that occur are entirely a result of the author's imagination and any resemblance to real people, events, and places is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2016 T. C. Edge

  All right reserved.

  First edition: December 2016

  Cover Design by Laercio Messias

  No part of this book may be scanned, reproduced, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.

  OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR:

  THE WATCHERS SERIES:

  The Watchers Trilogy:

  The Watchers of Eden (Book One)

  City of Stone (Book Two)

  War at the Wall (Book Three)

  The Watchers Trilogy Box Set

  The Seekers Trilogy

  The Watcher Wars (Book One)

  The Seekers of Knight (Book Two)

  The Endless Knight

  The Seekers Trilogy Box Set

  1

  The sign above the door reads: ‘Carmichael’s Academy’.

  It’s old and worn down, the metal rusted at the corners and hanging slightly loose on one side. Just from looking at it, you’d assume that the inside of the building was equally unkempt.

  And you’d be right.

  It’s a lie too. The word ‘academy’ in the title makes the building appear more than it is. A place, perhaps, for study and work, where the young are taught and educated and given a vocation.

  Really, it’s little more than a refuge for orphans and castaways, one of the few remaining in the city. Were it not for Mrs Carmichael, most of the kids here would find themselves in the northern quarter, swallowed up by the alleys and joining the ranks of the Disposables.

  It’s a sorry truth that many will end up there anyway. Mrs Carmichael’s charity can only stretch so far.

  I step over the threshold from the bustling street of Brick Lane and enter inside. A smell I know so intimately sweeps up my nose, the pungent scent of unwashed clothes and tobacco smoke that refuses to give way despite my best efforts. I have made it my mission to dismiss the odour for a while now, but to no avail.

  It’s our generous patron herself who contributes to the stench. Despite her many excellent qualities, Mrs Carmichael is a heavy smoker, a habit that appears to have been taken on by some of the older tenants living here.

  “It’s a losing battle,” she always tells me when she finds me scrubbing the old carpets and worn out curtains, puffing happily on a cigarette as she does so.

  I usually just smile and keep going. Frankly, it’s more as a way of keeping busy than anything else.

  The academy, or orphanage – because that’s what it really is – is situated over three floors in the west of Outer Haven, cosily nestled within one of the busiest residential districts in the city.

  The ground floor is taken up by the youngsters, the kids who are unable to legally work. They perform tasks around the place, washing dishes and cleaning clothes. Given how that side of the stench refuses to leave, I consider that they’re not doing a great job.

  The first floor is occupied by those in transition. Kids of an age where they can find a vocation, and yet are unable to do so. They are given only so long before they find themselves on the other side of the door. It’s harsh, but a necessary feature of life here at Carmichael’s.

  Such is the way throughout the sprawling urban jungle of Outer Haven.

  The second and top floor, meanwhile, exists to house those old enough to work. Half the money they earn is used to help care for those on the floors below. The other half is held in trust by our patron until the time is right for them to fly the nest. Mostly, that happens when they’re granted a housing license by the council and have a suitable pot of money to cover their essentials.

  Overall, it’s a symbiotic system where you work hard and give back. Since many of the kids here come when they’re very young, they’re only too happy to reciprocate when they reach the working age of 15.

  Some, of course, have been here longer than others.

  For me, it’s all my life.

  Eighteen years under the caring watch of Mrs Carmichael, the only parent I’ve ever known. I can honestly say it would take me a lifetime to repay her. If I could give her all of my wages, I would.

  Up through the building I step, passing the dusty main hall and moving up the winding staircase that leads to the second floor. The smell of stale smoke grows stronger as I rise and move down the corridor to the rear of the building. At the end, Mrs Carmichael’s own quarters await, with my room nearby on the left of the hallway.

  My first port of call is to tap on her door.

  My knuckles rap gently, and I hear a muffled call from within. I step inside and see my guardian sitting behind her desk in a fairly small and cluttered office. Off to the right, another door leads to her bedroom. On the left, she has a bathroom and little kitchenette. It’s a meagre allotment, but something she’s never cared for.

  It’s no surprise to find a cigarette dangling from her lips as she peruses some old files. Nor, given the time of day, is the sight of a large glass of whiskey particularly unusual.

  Behind an old pair of horn-rimmed glasses, her murky blue eyes rise to mine, a web of grey hair dangling untidily from her head. I’ve noticed that her general interest in her appearance has declined since the death of her husband, Derek, several years ago.

  “Evening, Brie,” she croaks, her thin lips building into a smile as her spindly fingers take possession of the cigarette. “Update?”

  “Yes, Mrs Carmichael,” I say. “The job’s all finished. The client was pleased. At least, I think he was.”

  “I’m sure he was, honey. Did you get payment?”

  “Sure did,” I say, stepping forward.

  I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out an envelope. For the most part, we operate on a cash only basis around here, most of our jobs being kept off the books. Mrs Carmichael enjoys a certain degree of anonymity, and doesn’t care for interference. Clearly, it works. I’ve never known anyone from the Court to venture this far. They don’t tend to take much interest in the lower workings of Outer Haven.

  She takes a grip of the envelope, has a cursory look inside to make sure everything looks right, and slips it into a coded safe in a drawer on the right of her desk. Then, taking a swig of whiskey, she looks back up at me.

  “Tomorrow you’re needed down at Culture Corner,” she says. “Some Fanatics have been getting trigger happy with their graffiti again.”

  I know what that means. My role here involves doing odd-jobs, mostly menial stuff that, frankly, a trained monkey could happily handle. It’s hardly fulfilling, but there you go. Few can boast of a particularly prosper
ous working life in this part of the city.

  “Right. The same sort of stuff as before?” I ask.

  She shrugs absentmindedly. “Most likely. I don’t know the exact details. Just that you’re needed down there at dawn, before the area becomes too busy. Tess will go with you, so pass on the message for me.”

  “OK, sure will.”

  Tess, my roommate and best friend, is at a similar stage to me here at the academy. She’s about the same age, and we commonly find ourselves working together around the city. Unlike me, however, she has memories of her parents, who died when she was just nine. I have no such burden.

  Instead, I have a long list of questions that will probably never be answered. A thousand hours spent wondering about who they were and why they abandoned me. All I have to go on is what Mrs Carmichael told me: that I was found crying and alone in a bundle of blankets on her doorstep, with nothing but a picture tucked up beside me.

  A picture of my mother and father, holding me as a baby. It’s my only true link to the past.

  Before I leave the room, Mrs Carmichael fixes me with a firm look.

  “Have you taken your pills for the day?” she asks me.

  For all the trust she’s developed in me over the years, my ability to take my diabetes medication has remained a constant doubt in her mind. Every single day, without fail, she utters the same question, delivered with the same critical tone to her croaky voice.

  And every time, I utter the same reply.

  “Yes, Mrs Carmichael, of course I have,” I say with a knowing smirk.

  She offers a smile in return and falls into another of her most commonly asked questions.

  “Are you ever going to start calling me Brenda?”

  And, as always, I play to our usual script.

  “One day, when I’ve repaid you enough,” I answer.

  It’s a day I know will never come.

  With a typical roll of the eyes, she shakes her head and gives off a raspy little laugh, before lighting up a fresh cigarette and returning her eyes to her files.

  “Goodnight then, Brie,” she mutters. “And remember, be down at Culture Corner by dawn.”

  I nod and exit the room, stepping back into the dim corridor with its moth eaten red carpet and creaking floorboards beneath. Down below, I can hear the sound of raucous play emanating from the ground floor. At this time of the evening, just before bed, some of the youngsters tend to get quite boisterous.

  It’s not quite the same up here, though. For the most part, everyone is exhausted by this point, and want little more than to sink into their beds and call it quits for the day. My own body is that way inclined, so I quickly make my way down the corridor and into my room.

  Inside, I find Tess already in bed, lying face up on the left of the room just staring at the ceiling. She looks half comatose, her usually bright blue eyes blank and struggling to stay open as they linger on the peeling white paint above.

  It’s clearly been an exhausting day.

  “Long day?” I ask her as I shut the door behind me.

  Slowly, her head swivels to look at me. Her expression answers for her.

  I laugh and begin undressing, peeling off the utility clothes that I tend to wear most days with the sort of work I’ve been getting recently. They fall into a bundle on the floor as I enter my bedclothes and set about brushing my teeth.

  With my mouth full of toothpaste, I tell Tess about tomorrow’s job.

  “We need to be at Culture Corner at dawn,” I say.

  I can hear her groan behind me.

  “What sort of job?” she moans.

  “Clean up, I guess,” I tell her. “More graffiti from the Fanatics.”

  “Oh God, that stuff’s a nightmare to get off.”

  “Tell me about it.” I turn to her and note that she’s still fully dressed and looking particularly bedraggled, her dirty blonde hair more murky than usual and her face spotted with dirt. She still looks pretty, though. That never seems to change. “You gonna, um, wash before bed?”

  She grunts and shakes her head, before pulling a blanket over her body with some difficultly.

  “What’s the point,” she mumbles, before rolling over and disappearing under the covers. “I’ll just get dirty again.”

  I can’t help but giggle at the sight. I’ve been there before plenty of times. It’s nice to be on the other side of it for once.

  Feeling relatively fresh, I turn off the main light and climb into bed, before pulling a little glowstick from my bedside table. I click a button and it emits a pale white glow that lights up only my side of the little room.

  “I’ll wake you before dawn,” I say to Tess. “We can’t be late.”

  I wait for a confirmative grunt before turning to the opposite wall, setting the glowstick down on the bed. It casts a soft light onto the bland wallpaper, bare brick showing in places where its cracked and torn.

  But it’s not the wall I’m looking at.

  My eyes stare at two faces as I lie there, themselves worn down and fading now. My mother, warm brunette locks tied into a bun, holding me tenderly in her arms. My father, a strong arm curling around my mother’s shoulder, his hazel eyes, just like mine, staring down at me.

  It’s a picture I’ve looked at every night since I can remember, my day somehow incomplete until I’ve inspected the image that seems so alien, so disconnected from my real world.

  I often wonder how they could have left me behind, seeing the affection and love in their eyes as they look at me. And then I look a little closer, and note the pain there too, the undercurrent of heartbreak that hovers in their expressions.

  And I realise that what they did, they did for a reason. And that, most likely, I’ll never find out what it was.

  2

  My alarm begins blaring half an hour before dawn, ruthlessly dragging me out of a deep sleep.

  An ingrained habit has me leaping straight out of bed, the chill of the morning creeping up my spine as I quickly jump back into my utility clothes; bland grey trousers and jacket, with an old t-shirt and jumper underneath for warmth, coupled with sturdy work boots that are less than flattering to a girl of 18.

  As I dress, I call out for Tess to get up. Clearly, my alarm isn’t enough for her.

  “Tess, come on, rise and shine,” I say, darting over to shake her awake.

  When she refuses to budge for even a moment, I swiftly drag off her blanket and let the cool morning air sweep over her. Her eyes crack open and glare at me.

  “I hate you,” she mutters, before slowly standing to her feet.

  “Love you too,” comes my bright response, my hands busily tying my brown locks into a ponytail before brushing my teeth.

  Tess follows me to the basin, wearily freshening her breath before we hastily wolf down a couple of protein rich breakfast bars. They’re bland and functional, supplying us with all the necessary energy we’ll need to see through a hard morning’s work.

  Within 3 minutes of my frankly deafening alarm, we’re up and ready to go, fully clothed and with our workbags tightly wrapped around our backs.

  Together, we sweep down through the building towards the ground floor, everyone else still fast asleep. The same is largely true when we exit into the morning air, the sky still dark and the streets covered with an unpleasant mist.

  There are few people on the streets, but their absence is made up for by the many drones hovering across the sky, their lights shining within the mist as they hurtle here and there. Most are postal drones, delivering goods and parcels before the world awakes. Others, however, are sentries, keeping an eye on us for their masters at the centre of Inner Haven.

  Before hurrying into the mist, we set our sights a little way down the street at a large glowing post that sticks about 10 feet out of the ground. Currently, it’s a fairly bright shade of green, indicating that the current fog isn’t toxic. When that green turns to yellow, and then red, you know that it’s time to get inside.

  We move off
down the street, heading south towards Culture Corner. When we arrive at a soon-to-be-thriving midsection, we climb onto the Conveyor Line, a simple tram-like transport system that connects the major districts and streets around Outer Haven.

  Unlike a tram, you don’t get to sit down, but merely stand on the conveyor belt and cling onto a pole in front of you as it slides along its tracks. It’s not overly fast, but helps you get about much quicker than you would on foot. Using it when tired or intoxicated, however, isn’t the best idea. Slipping off at its admittedly low top speed can still cause all manner of physical harm.

  Bearing that in mind, I make sure to take the spot behind Tess, weary as she still appears to be. Standing right behind her, I keep a close eye to ensure that she stays steady as the conveyor belt takes us southwards along the central connective street between the west and south quarters.

  As we go, the mist begins to clear a little, and the various billboards and advertising displays that dominate the sides of buildings start to spring into life, drenching the world in a multi-coloured neon glow.

  To the left, my gaze is drawn to the tall, soaring tower that monopolises the skyline, overshadowing all other structures across the city. Standing up well over a hundred storeys, and circular in shape, the High Tower is the central core of the city, right at the heart of Inner Haven. Up at its glass domed summit, the Consortium, the rulers of the city, cast their eyes down on us from their lofty perch.

  Surrounding the High Tower, other grand buildings spread, sleek and modern and well appointed as far as I can gather - not that I’ve ever seen them up close. They’re all enclosed by a solid metal wall that acts as the boundary between the two parts of the city: Inner and Outer Haven.

  Few from Outer Haven ever cross that threshold, our value not deemed high enough to merit doing so. As far as they see it, they’re genetically superior to us, and I suppose that’s factually correct. To them, we’re merely a function of their society, a necessary part of the well-oiled machine that they operate.