Hybrid: Book Two in The Enhanced Series Read online

  He looks tired. Clearly, he’s been there since the early hours, with the postal drones often arriving early.

  “Anything for me?” I ask keenly as I speed up in front of him.

  He seems quite taken aback by my sudden arrival. Around here, few of the residents, even those who live on the second floor, get much post. And when we do, it’s almost always addressed to Mrs Carmichael.

  “Um, I don’t think so,” squeaks Nate through his unbroken voice.

  “Well…could you check maybe?”

  He nods on his thin little neck and averts his squirrel-like eyes towards a basket that sits in a drawer of the desk. A quick search among the electronic postal files and the more rare paper letters indicates that there’s nothing specifically for me.

  “And has anything come for Mrs Carmichael this morning?” I ask.

  He shifts his head from side to side.

  “So…no post at all?”

  His head continues to shake.

  I sigh and move off.

  “Thanks, Nathan, keep up the good work.”

  I mean, he might have just told me there was no post to begin with.

  I head off to breakfast before it gets too busy, finding a quiet corner to munch on the gruel that my taste buds no longer react to, for good or bad. Instead, the mush just passes straight down my throat and into my stomach to do its job – keep me nourished, keep my alive.

  It’s kinda the same for most things in the city, really. Everything seems to have its place and function. I suppose, when I think about it like that, the notion of Culture Corner, with its art and music, and the fancy clothes shops and nice food that the richer residents of Outer Haven eat, is strangely at odds with the rest of the city.

  I mean, in Inner Haven – perhaps more than anywhere – the people live functional, undeviating lives. They all perform their roles and operate as part of a system, even more so than some of us do here. Really, it’s like a living machine over there. Only, instead of metal cogs and parts, it’s all flesh and blood.

  The natural progression towards eliminating the civil liberties of the Unenhanced, or stripping us to our bare bones and suppressing our emotions, isn’t hugely hard to grasp. The Savants have been doing it to the rest of the Enhanced for many decades, indoctrinating them to their thinking.

  So why not us?

  As I sit and ponder my new place in the world, the canteen begins to fill with chattering children. They talk endlessly, playing and fighting and giggling and gossiping. I watch them with a new slant, knowing how the world they grow up in is likely going to be very different to mine.

  Should the Consortium get their way, then who knows what the future will hold? Soon enough, maybe they’ll be none of us left, none of us proper humans. Only Enhanced, or those reconditioned to act according to the Savants’ design. A world running on tracks.

  Nothing but a giant machine, spreading its emotionless tendrils across the lands once more.

  The thought brings a grimace to my face as the kids swarm, forming into one large blur as my eyes just stare into the middle distance. Then, suddenly, I’m jolted back into the room by the sound of a voice, my vision coming back into stark contrast.

  I turn from the mess of kids and see Mrs Carmichael hovering above me.

  “Brie, I had no idea you were back. I thought you…”

  She quickly looks to see that no one’s close enough to hear. Frankly, with the youngsters chattering so loudly, that isn’t much of a problem.

  Still, she moves in and takes a seat on a bench ahead of me, leaning a little across the table and delivering a harsh whisper.

  “I thought you’d be gone a little longer,” she says, finishing her sentence. “Did it not go well? Did you decide to come back for good?”

  Her words rise, and her eyes widen in hope. I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint her.

  “Only temporarily,” I say. “I won’t be here for long.”

  Her voice deflates. “How long? What happened last night?”

  “Perhaps here isn’t the best place to talk, Mrs Carmichael,” I say, bobbing my head towards the sea of ears that surround us.

  “No, of course, you’re right. Let’s go to my office. You can tell me there.”

  We leave the canteen, moving down the corridor and into the entrance hall to the academy. As we do so, a squeak sounds from near the front doorway, and Nate comes hurrying over to us on his spindly legs that remind me of the newborn cattle over in the warehouses of the eastern quarter.

  “Brie, the post you were asking for…it just came in,” he says as he comes, before turning his eyes up to our guardian. “Morning, Mrs Carmichael,” he adds with a smile.

  “Good morning, Nathan,” she responds, turning her eyes to the sealed message in his hand. “Now what’s this about?” she asks.

  Nathan appears to think the question is directed at him. All he does is shrug.

  “I’ll tell you upstairs,” I say, grabbing the electronic letter. “Thanks, Nate. Good job.”

  He grins before darting back to his post, ever vigilant.

  A minute later, Mrs Carmichael is settling into the well-worn leather chair behind her desk, and I’m taking residence of one in front. As she fiddles with what’s most likely the first of many cigarettes today, I break the seal on the slim line electronic tablet and let it glow to life.

  It does so, bringing with it the words that I’ve been waiting for.

  Dear Miss Melrose,

  You are cordially invited to attend a Bachelor Ball this

  coming Saturday evening at 7PM, to be held at Compton’s Hall

  on the Southside of the Innermost Spiral of Inner Haven.

  A chaperone will be sent to you tomorrow morning to take you

  through etiquette and procedures. Please be ready to receive her

  before 8AM.

  Many congratulations, and all the best of luck to you in finding

  a suitable match.

  Sincerely,

  Mrs Ingrid. W. Humbert,

  High Secretary of the Council of Matrimony.

  By the time my eyes have scanned the glowing words, Mrs Carmichael has lit her cigarette and taken a couple of long drags. Her eyes linger on the script. Clearly, she’s capable of reading it upside down.

  “So…this is what they want from you?” she asks, raising her eyebrows with a measure of accusation. “They want you to court an Enhanced? Why, Brie? What’s going on?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “We have time, clearly. Your liaison isn’t expected until 8 tomorrow morning.”

  “OK, well it’s not that long,” I admit. “I guess you’ve already hit the bullet points.”

  “But why do they want you courting an Enhanced?”

  I struggle to say the words. They still sound stupid, even in my head. I’m to be a spy.

  A spy! Me.

  I decide to choose alternative wording.

  “They want information,” I tell her. “The Consortium are planning something, and they think I can help find out what.”

  “You? Why you?”

  “I’m, um, unique. Apparently.”

  “Unique? Brie, you’re going to have to start from the top here. As I say, we’ve got plenty of time. This is important. Tell me.”

  There’s a strain to her voice that’s rare, and her eyes too. She’s usually quite stern, even austere at times. These last few days, however, have laid bare her worries. Worries about me. Worries about Inner Haven. Worries that have been brewing and breeding inside her for such a long count of years.

  She deserves to know. I owe it to her.

  So I do as ordered, and step back to the beginning, telling her everything that’s happened since I left this very office less than 36 hours ago.

  The attack on the black market and the rescue by Zander. The tunnels below the city and the journey beyond it. The church and the green mist and the glowing lights of the High Tower, so majestic and beautiful from such a dista
nce.

  I tell her then of Lady Orlando, of the powers that are set to manifest inside me. And finally, of Zander and his true identity. Of my twin brother, a fact that still lights a fire in my heart whenever it sparks into my mind.

  As I utter the final reveal, I watch her closely, suspicious still that she might have known of his existence. If Zander’s guardian, Linda, had a picture of us both as babies, then why not Mrs Carmichael?

  Yet her face tells no lies, speaks of no knowledge of my twin. The shock is something she could never falsify, not to me. I know her too well for that. Her reaction is genuine.

  “You have a brother?! Brie, that’s wonderful news,” she says. “It’s so rare for anyone here to find lost family. I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thanks, Brenda. I have to admit, it came as quite a surprise.”

  The use of her first name falls off my tongue. It feels right, natural. It’s as if I’ve passed some invisible milestone, graduated from this place.

  “I’m sure it did. I honestly had no idea. Your father never spoke of another child.”

  “Nothing at all?” I ask, peering closely.

  “No. Nothing. I suppose he must have split you two up to keep you safe,” she says, thinking out loud. “How did Zander come by the picture?”

  “His guardian was killed when he was a boy,” I say. “He was taken in by the Nameless, and found the picture among her things. I assume that, maybe, his guardian had orders to tell him about me and his past when he was old enough. Just like you did…”

  “That makes sense. Although, I don’t see why your father would have kept that information from me.”

  “Maybe he wanted Zander to know only. For him to find me or something. I don’t know, really. I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

  A fresh puff of smoke spreads from Mrs Carmichael’s mouth. She looks so weary, so old. Her once smooth skin has grown so wrinkled and pallid, spiderwebs spreading from the sides of her eyes and mouth. She’s aging fast now, the flesh being lost from her body and a gauntness beginning to set in.

  “I never asked before,” I continue. “My father – what was his name?”

  She sets the cigarette into its ashtray.

  “Maxwell. But he let me call him Max. I never knew his second name, if he even had one.”

  Maxwell…I like the name.

  “And, he was only a Hawk?”

  She nods lightly.

  “Just a Hawk, yes. He’d keep watch around the streets here. He was a kind man, Brie. He had a good heart, like you…”

  “But it makes no sense,” I mutter, breaking her stride as she speaks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Zander. He has so many gifts. He’s not just a Hawk, but a Dasher too. And a Mind-Manipulator. If my mother was a Savant, then my father must have been more than just a Hawk. He must have been a Dasher as well.”

  “A Hawker?” says Mrs Carmichael. “No, that’s highly unlikely. That would make him a hybrid. There’s no way he could have been part of the City Guard.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Unless your mother was a Savant, and a Dasher?” she says, “Although, that would make her a hybrid too, so the same principle applies.”

  “What about old blood,” I ask. “Could my father have had old Dasher blood somewhere back in his bloodline? Maybe it never properly manifested in him, but did in Zander?”

  Mrs Carmichael considers it for a moment, her fingers creeping to her spiky jaw.

  “Yes, that’s possible. And, actually, that makes quite a lot of sense, given your mother’s gifts.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, she was a Savant, and a Mind-Manipulator at that. That’s a powerful ability, and as you say, Zander has the same potential.”

  “So…”

  “So, having such an ability would enable him to open up pathways to old bloodlines, something that your father couldn’t have done. If there was old Dasher blood in him, somewhere in his past, it would be rare for that to manifest. With Zander, however, his Savant side would have the capacity to mine his potential more fully. So, I suppose that’s what happened.”

  “And now it’s my turn,” I say.

  Her enthusiasm is quenched. Her words collapse along with her posture, drawn out by a sudden sigh.

  “Yes,” she says dryly. “Now it’s your turn.”

  She doesn’t want this for me, that’s obvious enough. That’s her role here: a parent looking out for their child, wanting to see them safe from harm. It’s a strange one, really. Parents will do anything for their children to ensure they live long and safe lives, even to the detriment of doing something worthwhile.

  I have a chance here to help, to make a difference. I can make sure that others don’t suffer the same fate as my parents, and the many more who have seen their lives ruined by the ‘logic’ of the Savants.

  That’s my role. That’s my path. Perhaps, one day, Mrs Carmichael will see that.

  “I know you don’t approve,” I say, my words disrupting a short silence.

  “It’s not about approval, Brie,” she counters with a soft frown. “It’s about wanting you to be safe, and happy.”

  “Sometimes that’s not possible. Not in this city. How many people do you know who are happy? Or safe? They may think they are, but they’re not. That’s what we’re trying to stop.”

  “We? You’re really a part of their cause now, aren’t you,” she sighs. “I just don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “I know. But that’s not up to you. I have no choice, Brenda. You must understand that?”

  Lighting up a new cigarette, she takes a drag and nods.

  “I do. Some people are made for more than a simple life. You’re one of them, Brie Melrose. I just hope you find some happiness along the way…”

  Happiness? It’s an alien concept.

  “And you? Are you happy?”

  Her eyes sink and darken.

  “My happy years are spent, Brie,” she says. “They died when Derek did. Now it’s you, and Tess, and all the other kids I worry about. I’m just like you…I just want to do some good.”

  “And you are,” I say, rising from my chair and moving around to her. I take her withered hand and squeeze it tight between my fingers, young but marked and blemished by years of labour. “You’ve done enough good for a hundred lifetimes. Now it’s time I repaid the favour.”

  She cups my cheek in her palm and smiles.

  “You have the eyes of your father,” she says. “And his good heart. I wonder what your mother was like, for him to have fallen for her…”

  “So do I,” I say, releasing her hand and stepping back.

  And when I go to Inner Haven, that’s exactly what I’m going to find out.

  4

  The following morning, I rise early in preparation for my chaperone. The air in the academy carries a bitter chill, but no more so than the atmosphere brought about by Tess’s frosty mood.

  Having ignored me since our little argument the previous morning, I settle in for the expected two or three days of silent treatment. Over the years, that’s the general format I’ve grown used to.

  This time, however, I won’t be around to endure it. And that’s probably a good thing. When she finds out I’m attending a bachelor ball tomorrow evening, her crankiness is likely to magnify tenfold.

  Heading to the canteen nice and early, I find Drum already present, wolfing down a couple of bowls of gruel – he gets larger portions, given his size – as if he’s gorging on chocolate cake.

  The haste of his feasting, however, isn’t due to the delicious taste of the sludge, but his ever-increasing workload. I join him, but he only has a couple of minutes to spare before he has to get off to work.

  “Clearance work at an old building,” he tells me when I ask him what the job is. “It’s being torn down and replaced, over in district 9 of the eastern quarter.”

  That’s a long way away, right on the far side of the city ne
ar the boundary wall. No wonder he’s up so early. It’ll take him a little while to get there.

  It’s great that he’s getting so much work, though. And since I’m not coming back – although I don’t tell him that, of course – he’s only likely to have more jobs lined up in the coming weeks and months.

  “So how’s it all going?” I ask tentatively.

  Mostly, when Drum gets work, he’s only got bad things to say about it. Not the job itself, but his performance. He’s always walking on eggshells, which, as you can imagine, isn’t ideal for a boy of his size.

  When he says, “good,” however, I feel a warm sensation spread through me. I may have just found a brother by blood, but I’ve had an adopted one for years.

  “That’s great, Drum. Will the job last long?”

  “Until the end of next week at least. It’s good work for me. I can break stuff and it doesn’t matter!”

  His bountiful lips explode into a smile, revealing teeth the size of tablets.

  “Perfect!” I say as he scoops a final heaped spoonful of porridge into his cavern of a mouth.

  “Anyway, I’d better get going,” he announces, rising high from the bench and sending the table shaking as his thick thighs graze it.

  The tremors send my bowl vibrating off onto the floor, where it smashes into a mixture of pottery shards and grey slop.

  “Oh no…” groans Drum, bounding around the bench to clean it.

  “Don’t worry,” I laugh, “I’ll take care of it. You can’t be late for work. Off you go.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, of course. Now go, Drum!”

  He sets a huge paw down on my head, engulfing my skull, and gives me a quick stroke. Drum has some trouble expressing his emotion through personal contact. Apparently, stroking me like a cat is his chosen method of showing appreciation.

  “Thanks, Brie. I owe you one,” he mumbles, before marching off out of the room, leaving me giggling to myself as I mop up his mess.

  Some things never change.

  The exchange has me losing track of time. By the time I’m done, I haven’t even realised that the clock has ticked straight past 8AM.

  A quick check of my watch tells me it’s 8.03.