The Nightingale and the Tower

“Up. Up, early to bed, early to rise..” The familiar voice of Ms. Smith crowded away the tantalizing dream. Emmie struggled to remember what the dream was, but beyond a comfortable feeling of warmth, she couldn’t bring it back. All had faded except the urge to have it back, the desire to grab something that was just out of reach. She sat up and yawned. The sun was indeed coming up through the eastern window of her suite, as it had for every day of her life. The Tower believed that routine, static environments and familiar staff had a calming effect. A calm mind was a receptive mind, a receptive mind was capable of learning and retaining information.
“Up, means out of bed.” Ms. Smith frowned, the lines on her face settling in to their familiar pattern. Emmie wondered if Ms. Smith’s face might shatter if she smiled. In the eight years that Emmie had known her, Ms. Smith had smiled, but it was a rare and quite frankly, chilling sight. The woman’s face had pre-set lines, like a sketch that had yet to be colored in.
Getting out of bed and crossing to her bathroom, Emmie reflected that Ms. Smith’s position didn’t require much in the way of humor. Emmie was to be looked after, fed, tutored, and cared for on the rare times that she fell ill. She wasn’t a friend, or even a mother, though Emmie’s understanding of motherhood was very limited. Emmie was twelve years old and had never once met her mother. She was informed of that fact anytime she inquired about her mother. She had stopped asking when she was seven. She had just finished a study course in obstetric emergencies and naturally had inquired about her own biological mother. That had been a mistake.
“You do not need a mother. Your mother gave you the substance of life. It is up to others to see to it that your life has worth.” And with wonderful announcements like that, Ms. Smith would immediately make sure that Emmie was kept so busy, she hadn’t any time for idle thought. Obstetrics, genetics and most anything that brought up maternal concerns was pulled from her studies. She had spent an entire year on digestive disorders and failed corrective GI surgeries.
Still, as Emmie brushed her teeth and changed into khaki pants and a green shirt, young Maggie’s Guardian was almost bubbly. And Maggie didn’t have to handle half of the schooling that Emmie did. Maggie, while only seven, was a whiz at all things geographical. She knew about cities and countries that Emmie had never heard of. But that was often the case for girls in the Tower. Tower girls were protected and educated and cosseted. They were allowed to reach their full potential. Tower girls were also never permitted to sleep past dawn or socialization time, even with each other. Questions outside of required studies were discouraged. Friendships outside of study fields were rare. As far as Emmie knew, she was the only girl in the Nightingale program, Kay having left sometime the previous year. . Maggie was a Skipper and as her knowledge in the geography of the world grew, her spare time shrank. Ever since Emmie had started doing field work, her chances to talk to Maggie had been few.
She gathered the soft material of her shirt, prepared to pull it over her head. Her finders grazed the embroidered logo on the breast. A small stone tower, a bolt of lightening hitting it. Under that was a small caduceus, the emblem of her position in the Nightingale program. Emmie crossed to the eastern window, the glass now darkening to deflect some of the solar energy as the sun rose in earnest. A small table was set at an angle to view the grounds. The sunlit trees and lawns had a color cast to them, vivid in reds and oranges. Emmie had never seen the grounds at sunset. She had never been permitted out of the tower after sunset. Running from the roof door to the helipad was the extent of her nocturnal sightseeing.
She had settled in to eat the fruits, yogurts and grains that made up her overly calculated breakfast when Darren came into the suite. The light over the door buzzed green and his familiar blond head came through the door. Everywhere that Darren went, his head came first, so forward was his motion. It could have been the fact that he was fairly short for a Watcher. His hair was closely cropped and his short height was in no way a reflection on his size. He was stocky and strong, a fireplug of a man. His wry grin was a sharp contrast to the sour perpetual expression of Ms. Smith.
“Hey, Emmie, sorry to interrupt breakfast, but we have to roll. Got a mission for you.” His face was made for grinning and he did so now. He was in fatigues, a heavy belt housing his weapon, radio and assorted bits and pieces. No rank was permitted on his uniform, just the Tower emblem on a red patch.
“Can I come as is or do I need ‘the uniform’?” Emmie enjoyed teasing him. Maybe because he seemed to be the only happy person she had contact with on a regular basis. Ms. Smith hardly counted as human, so low was her emotional range.
“Ah, yes, you will need the ‘uniform.’ Though I totally disapprove, of course.” The grin was back as he shushed her t0words the bathroom to change. “Hurry, the chopper is fueled and awaiting you.”
“You mustn’t make light of young Emmie’s duties, Lt. Darren. Emmie must have a suitable frame of mind to complete her tasks. She has an amazing success record that shouldn’t be sullied.” Ms. Smith hated having the Watcher come in, unplanned, and take over Emmie’s day. She was correct in her suspicions that Lt Darren didn’t adhere to the strict dietary regulations that governed Emmie’s time in the Tower and that from time to time unapproved conversations were had on their way home.
In short time Emmie had changed into unadorned military fatigues. Her long chestnut hair was braided tightly and tucked up under itself to make a thick glossy end to the braid. Her grey eyes sparkled. Emmie loved an urgent mission. Just the thought of field work put goose bumps on her arms. Gone was her regret over her missing dream, gone were her grim thoughts.
“Let’s go, little bird. I’ll have her back by dinner, Ms. Smith.” With another quick grin he ushered Emmie through the door to her suite, it flashed briefly green as the door opened and then flashed red when Emmie crossed the threshold.They crossed what appeared to be a clean room and into the labyrinth of the Tower. It wasn’t really a tower, that Emmie could see, but a convoluted twisting of buildings. After several quick turns and secured doors,( the path never seemed to be the same, no matter how often Emmie traveled it) they reached the elevator to take them to the helipad on the roof.
The wash from the chopper hit her as soon as Darren opened the door. Ducking the spinning rotors, Emmie savored the brief gush of fresh air on her face. The scents begged for a longer visit. Floral spring-like smells, the sharp scent of the chopper, and the warm damp smell of a possible thunder storm, all but ignored as Emmie ducked into the sleek black helicopter and buckled her safety harness. She quickly settled into her seat and put on her headset. The routine was familiar, unhurried, the motions well practiced.
The pilot, one of many unnamed faces in Emmie’s world, waited for the signal from Lt. Darren that Emmie was secured. With the all clear given the chopper rose quickly and flitted off, the glare of the sun preventing Emmie from seeing anymore of the grounds.
“Read up, little bird, this is what you’re about to encounter.” He shifted a green folder from a bag on the floor to Emmie’s lap. His brows furrowed slightly. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”
Emmie opened the folder and images of broken men assaulted her. Their faces were stoic and set, the pain evident in the closed eyes, the clenched jaws. All of them appeared to have massive burns and torn skin. A broken bone was seen on one patient and an open head injury on another. The pictures had been taken in a hospital facility, but beyond that, Emmie could not guess where they were taken. As usual, they had been taken in haste, the angles skewed, the focus often blurred, as if the photographer had simply been hitting the shutter while walking.
“This one I need to see first,” Emmie held up the picture of one particular man. She quickly shuffled through the photos, reading some of the notes that were handwritten on the back.
“What happened? Bomb? Industrial accident or something more interesting?” She handed over the photos, now in the order of her mission.
“Need to know and you don’t need to know much to do your job. Besides, anything interesting is off limits to you.” Darren took back the photos and started giving orders into a radio. All of the men were listed as numbers. Names were never used. It was practical and very impersonal. Triage orders were set, and Emmie’s requirements were issued. Darren was silent after that and Emmie knew better than to try for more information. The Tower provided her needs, she provided services at their discretion. No contact with outsiders was permitted. According to the Tower, Emmie had all she needed to do her job. Emmie was beginning to question some of these precepts. At twelve, she had been on active, on-site missions for two years. Her skills had developed to the point that she traveled instead of having her missions come to the Tower, and in traveling, Emmie discovered that there was a very large world out there, and the Tower had very little to do with it.