Coming of Edge: Prelude

The old man in the uniform pressed his index finger on the pad. It turned green, followed by an affirmative beep. The automatic door opened. The old man pulled his ID card out of the reader and walked through.

Behind the door was a long, empty corridor. Artificial lighting gave it an unloved gloom, a rejection of life, the welcoming of dead things. For a modern facility it seemed ancient and forlorn. He slouched along, past unimpressive door after door until he finally halted. He stood in front of a double gate, leading to a chamber of prison cells. Thus the gate was labelled ‘Cells’. One of the windows with security glass in the door had a heavy crack running across it. He entered.

It was a huge circle of a room. And deep. A deep into the earth reaching panopticon. Over one thousand cells were here, intended for those who mostly just ended up as collateral damage on the wrong side of history and evolution. They were all empty. Except for the occupied one on the bottom in the center of the circle. The one with a glass ceiling to observe the most dangerous remaining inmate.

The old man walked over to the elevators and, again, pressed his index finger on a pad. Green light, a short beep, elevator doors slid open. He chose the lowest level and the elevator silently went down. The deeper he went, the louder the constant hum of the inhibitors became. The bone-chilling feeling grew, that slight feeling of nausea and queasiness. When he reached the bottom, he left the elevator and stepped into another room which had a lot of screens and appliances in it. Almost silent, regular beeps and monitors, seemingly alive, faintly glowing, showing serene, simple graphics in motion. At the other side of the room, right in front of a wall-filling window pane, was a cluster of comfortable seats with small desks. Someone was sitting there.

He went to the well-equipped pantry and briefly remembered how they all had worked here, talking, quipping, arguing, observing, conducting experiments. Had it been seventeen, eighteen men and women? Some of the best scientists money could buy and threats could force. And he had been amongst them because he was the one that understood the subjects. That’s why they had tagged him “The Sleuth”. Apart from his ability to track and identify homo potens, he had no qualifications to justify his involvement.

He got a macchiato from the automated coffee machine and walked over to the seats and the woman sitting there. He could easily identify her just by her hair. When the project had started she had worn her black curls in a natural afro. He had liked that about her. That and her bright, warm smile. Now the curls were gone and she wore it smooth and straightened.

The old man stood next to her. “Niara,” he said without looking at her and instead focusing a young man on the other side of the window. He was reclining on a bed and reading a book.

“Hey Pick,” she answered in her melodic voice, friendly and amiable and professional.
“I did not expect you to come.”

He looked at her. Her smile had faded and she wore her mouth smooth and straightened. It made his heart crumple. He felt his guts collapsing so he sat down, putting the cup on the small desk next to him.

“I feel… responsible,” he said. Sipping his coffee.

“Well, you should. You are. He would hardly be here without your doing.” She paused. “Don’t you feel pride for finally changing the world for the better? For finally accomplishing what we worked on for almost the last 20 years?”

He groaned. “Are we having this convo again?”

“Well, I suppose I still wish we’d be vibing like we used to. You’ve changed.” There was a hint of disdain in her voice, but also of longing.

“Us both.” He glanced at her hair once more, then turned his gaze back to the window and pointed towards the man reading.
“The mission will start in half an hour or so. Are you not going to join with the chancellor, eating canapés and drinking champagne?”

“I will. Could not suppress the nostalgia, though.” She chuckled. “Ah, us humans - so fragile, so emotional.”

“I like us that way,” he said.

“I know. Don’t worry, I won’t start that convo. Again.” Her voice had a tint of sardonic amusement.

They both fell silent. The old man sipped his coffee from time to time, both watching the young adult in the other room. He put down his book and rose from his bed. He was barefoot, wore simple linen pants and a tight sleeveless shirt. As he walked gracefully to the pantry, pouring himself a glass of water, it was clear that he had a fit, lean build.

The woman checked her smartwatch. “It’s time. For me at least.” She rose from her chair and smoothed her suit. “Despite everything, it was nice meeting you, old man.”

When he looked at her, she was beaming at him like in the old days. Her wide smile and velvet lips and soft, embracing eyes - brown with a warm, golden tint, reminiscent of honeycombs. His heart was aching for her. He wanted to touch her, hold her, kiss her.

The lights flickered briefly.

“I am sorry,” he stammered. His throat tightened as if he’d swallowed curdled milk.

Shrill alarms were going off, the room suddenly tinted in a red glow. The screens were flashing warnings of security breaches and malfunctioning systems. Niara instantly ran to one specific control board, checking and trying to re-establish project stability.

“Shit, shit, shit. Not now! Everything’s been stable for months!” She worked the integrated keyboard, pulling up logs and monitoring details. “All the inhibitors are completely offline!” She almost screamed. “How could… fuck! How are we supposed to control him?”

Everything went to absolute darkness. She heard no sounds except her breathing and her heart, pounding adrenaline through her. It was deafening until she felt hot breath on her neck.

“You are not.” The whisper next to her ear was almost casual, intimate, unforgiving.

It was not the voice of the old man.

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