The Wraith's Story (BRIGAND Book 1) (2 page)

The Bishop sat still beside me that day in the garden. I acknowledged him with a small nod — a signal that I was prepared for verbal interaction.  He gave me a few moments to savor the atmosphere in the garden before speaking.

His hand emerged from under his robe and, cradled inside his enormous palm, nestled a baby chick. I'd only seen images of them on the screens during my studies. But I knew what it was.

"Would you like to hold it?" He asked without turning his gaze from the leafy bush in front of us. He kept his movements small, his profile low so the nurses at the end of the garden would not notice us.

"Yes." I did not nod, or turn my head.

He reached with his left hand and gently placed the creature into my cupped hands. It barely fit within my palms.

I repressed an urge to run my finger over the soft head of the bird for fear it would fall out if I tried to balance it in one hand. I stared down at the cloud of yellow fluff in wonder. My face remained impassive.

"What do you want to do with it?"

I knew it was a test. Everything was a test. I also knew several probable correct answers. But I wasn't certain which one he wanted to hear. I needed context. "It's weak."

"Yes."

"It has no mother. No way to care for itself."

"Yes."

"It is useless to me."

"Yes."

"I should kill it."

"Yes."

I waited a few seconds for him to say more.

"Would you like me to do it right now?"

"I asked you what you
wanted
to do with it. I didn't ask you what you
should
do with it."

I paused. One. Two. Three seconds.

"I want to touch it with my finger. To feel how soft it is. But I worry if I balance it in one hand there is a high probability that it will fall to the ground and be injured."

The Bishop leaned forward stiffly resting his forearms on his knees.

"If you were to hold it in both hands, up to your cheek, you could feel it. The nurses will not see you."

I stared forward. I lifted the baby chick to my cheek without hesitation, as he suggested. The softness of the downy feathers was like nothing I'd experienced before. Smooth, a whisper of a touch — immense pleasure.

One red blip beeped along the wrist of my gray suit. A 'soft' warning that my heart rate had changed. You get two soft warnings if the variance is not statistically relevant.  After a third, intervention is required.

"Breathe, Ma Petite. Be calm." The Bishop did not react or change his posture. But he used the name he called me instead of my assignment, Subject 11. His voice soothed my vital signs into the nominal range.

I inhaled slightly and relaxed my heart rate. No other warning beeps sounded.

We sat still for exactly one minute. I had three minutes of garden time left.

"I jumped three pockets this morning, Mon Pere."

Since he used my name I knew it was acceptable to address him in this way. 'Mon Pere', French, the language of love – and intrigue. It meant 'My Father'. I assumed it had to do with his place in the Templum.

The Bishop hadn't always been a bishop. A long time ago, he had been a soldier of the Confed. I overheard the nurses once, saying he'd been a Jack, a shipboard marine. Jacks were known for their brutality — and ethical pragmatism. But The Bishop exuded calm strength and a gentleness that made the nurses look upon him with curious expressions. The arteries along their necks pulsed more quickly when he approached. Their breath would labor ever so slightly. I practiced my calm and imagined biting their throats so that their life blood would drain away. I learned that in my first year of combat training. When you are small, and not the strongest, you use whatever means will work. In the absence of other weapons, teeth are quite effective.

But calm is all.

The Bishop didn't appear surprised by my confession about the pockets. But I knew no one had ever done three in a row. Ever.

"Are you boasting?"

"No, Mon Pere. I'm required to report a mastery."

"Have you told anyone else?"

"No. And I was not observed." We both knew that meant far more than the simple fact that nobody had been in the room with me.

The left corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. One of his tells. He had taught me to read facial expressions, his facial expressions, in careful detail. The smallest nuances could represent intense emotion. This faint twitch was a smile. He was proud of me. He had taught me nearly a hundred other tells. It was our secret language. We both knew it was a gross violation of protocol. I never revealed that either.

"Tell no one, Ma Petite. Comprenéz?" I waited for a twitch or blink, any indication that he wished me to do the opposite of what he said. His face remained relaxed.

He looked directly at me. The direct eye contact almost triggered another soft warning from my monitor, but I controlled the fluctuations in my body as quickly as they rose in my chest.

"Do not reveal this to anyone else." He said it so quietly I had to read his lips.

"No."

The Bishop never shared with me like this. I felt brave. And frightened.

"Am I safe here, Mon Pere?"

He turned back to the flowers. The pinks of them reflected in the corners of his eyes. A wrinkle creased ever so slightly along his full lips, so small and insignificant that even he wasn't aware of the movement. It was for my eyes alone.

After twenty-three seconds he answered, "No."

We both went back to staring at the flowers at our feet. After sixty more seconds of silence The Bishop held out his left hand. I placed the chick gently inside of his cupped palm, careful not to touch him. He tucked the bird inside his enormous black robe and walked away.

I spent the remaining fifty-seven seconds of my garden time in mediation. I would not disobey the Bishop, even if it meant breaking a rule of the Mandate of St. Nicolo, the order that created us. And I knew on that day, in my eighth year, that I would need to escape the Templum.

When Mastery Check came the following week, I reported that I successfully jumped one pocket. I placed the tissue-thin gray cap over my head and tucked up my short raven wisps of hair, then folded it low to cover even my eyebrows. My eyes were sea blue, bordering gray and with the implants I could phase them to a lighter shade, almost white. Every other girl had blonde, gray, or in the rarest and most special cases, white hair. It made pocket jumping and hiding so much easier when your hair didn't contrast against the white and gray walls.

I was the only dark haired one in the advanced group and they thought the skin cap helped me mask myself. What their less capable eyes didn't register was the fact that I jumped through four pockets, disappearing entirely for a short time. I had traveled to the center of the Cell and back in the span of a single heartbeat.

I pulled the cap on and demonstrated a quick jump. The nurse in the white coat nodded curtly and tapped her transparent tablet, noting my achievement. She nodded again and I retreated to the back of the line. I removed my cap and reached as if to drop it on the table, with the other caps that were needed for some of the ash blonde girls. But as soon as the nurse looked away, I quickly pulled my arm back and gently pressed it to the inside of my leg. It was so thin that you couldn't see – well
she
couldn't see that it was there. I wasn't sure if I actually needed it. I suspected my hair could be bright purple and they still wouldn't see me as I slipped into a pocket. But I knew that, if I was serious about planning an exit, uncertainty was unacceptable.

The nurse was not a high-order Wraith. Most of the nurses had some training, but by definition they weren't good enough for service. Instead, they were assigned to the Cells. The cap would be safe with me. If any of the other girls observed my indiscretion they would not tell.

Wraiths didn't speak openly unless directly asked.

I kept the stolen cap plastered to the underside of my cot for over a year. I got better and better at jumping. I slipped out at night, into the center of the corridor and would stare down the hall to the Cell. I would find a pocket, directly in the center, leading to the Cell control, and hide there. Sometimes I would sit for an hour or more and watch the nurses. With my gray suit, and skin cap on, they never saw even a hint of my presence. I learned to keep my breathing and heart rate in tune with my sleeping state. If they were to check the control panel for my vitals, it would tell them that I was sleeping. All of the information they needed was right in front of them. But I watched them. Studied them. I watched the intricate revolving pattern of red beams that scanned the main hallway leading to the exit. They called the security system the Snowflake. Something about it never being the same, the highest technology. Unpassable.

Perfection.

Of course, only fools believed in perfection. Only lunatics tried to achieve it. That's what The Bishop said.

Their security was far from perfect.

82 had her first blood on a Wednesday. Ceremony always followed right after the blood day. When a girl received her first blood she was to inform one of the Cell nurses. Usually they could tell from the vital signs and, more often than not, would arrive before being called. Her ceremony would be on Thursday, when she would be elevated to Triàge et Révision des Infirmités Génétiques, 'sorting and reconditioning of genetic anomalies' — an advancement if you will. Once Wraiths passed through TRIG they left the Cell forever. Their training continued in an adjoining building. The Chancery. After the Chancery they would be placed with a highborn family. On the outside.

I knew I would miss 82. I was 11 and didn't expect my blood for at least another year. But that morning, as the nurses cleaned 82's cot, they told me, "You'll have your ceremony tonight after 82. Isn't that exciting? Such an honor for one so young. You will go to TRIG."

I nodded. "Yes."

"You have garden time in one hour."

My eyes widened ever so slightly in question — enough of a gesture for her poorly trained eyes to register.

Her expression softened for a fraction of a second. "There's extra garden time on your Ceremony day."

I nodded again and she turned on her heel and left. The soft soles of her slippers made barely a whisper along the white tiled floor.

Later, as I sat alone in a secluded corner of the garden, I watched The Bishop quietly talk with each girl who would attend her ceremony that day. He gave each one of them a small dark square. I spied, invaded their privacy — as the girl's faces registered the smallest flickers of surprise and something else, something I couldn't quite figure out, as they placed the squares in their mouths. One girl actually closed her eyes. I'd never seen a Wraith deliberately close her eyes for that long before. At least not while she was awake.

Well, maybe one other time.

When he saw me his eyes widened .5 millimeters in response before his careful mask slipped back into place. He walked over to me and sat down.

"What are you doing here, 11?"

My given identifier. A signal for caution.

"I am to have my ceremony tonight. I will go to TRIG."

He removed his hand from the inside of his robe and held out one of the same dark squares. I looked down at his hand.

"Take it. Put it in your mouth quickly."

I obeyed. I placed the square inside my mouth.

He turned to face me and
blinked once
, slowly and deliberately.

One slow blink. Danger. Mortal Danger.

My heart monitor bleeped.

"It's okay. They'll think it's from the chocolate I just gave you. Take a moment and calm yourself."

I steadied my breathing and tried to focus on the square that melted against my tongue. It was sweet. I tasted sweet once before on a protein cube laced with Goulard's Powder. This was sweet too, but so different. This felt smooth on my tongue. If he hadn't blinked when I put it in my mouth I might have actually enjoyed it.

"It is… unprecedented. What is it?" I asked sitting still beside him.

"It's called chocolate." His nostrils flared.
Escape
.

"It tastes good. Pleasurable." I ran my right hand along my thigh one half of an inch and tapped my pinky finger once.
When?

"How does it make you feel?" I thought it a strange question. We were never expected to respond emotionally to stimuli. He briefly touched his palms together in front of him.
Tonight.

"I feel a warmth. Low, in my stomach I think. What is this feeling called?"

"Happiness, Ma Petite, "he whispered.

I sucked the chocolate around in my mouth. It was soothing. Calming. I knew I had to go. I'd been training for it. I had my exoderm, my cap, my training. I could be invisible. I knew how to kill in hundreds of silent ways. I would succeed.

"Will I see you tonight at the ceremony?" I asked.

"Yes. You will see me." He looked directly at me. "
I do not expect to see you."

He blinked slowly again but followed it with a second blink and a tiny bead of moisture gathered at the corner of his eye.

This I did not understand. I reached up without thinking and collected the droplet on my index finger. I held it carefully and stared at the tiny transparent orb. "What is this?"

He stood up. "That is love."

Then he walked away from me without looking back.

I dropped my hand into my lap and stared down at the small drop on my finger as I savored the last swallow of chocolate. I didn't want to let go of the tear. I didn't want to let go of him.

I surreptitiously canted my head, scanning to each side. My peripheral vision was superior as well. The other girls were absorbed in their own pleasurable moments.

I brought my finger up to my lips and touched it with my tongue. The taste was subtle and unexpected and salty.

Happiness was sweet.

Love was salty.

82 went to TRIG before me. I sat alone in the holding room for hours until she came back to collect her belongings before transferring to the Chancery. The Bishop led her into the room, acknowledging me with a brief nod, then stepped back out and closed the door. No tells. No warnings. I didn't know what to do. So I waited.