Beyond Oblivion

by Daryl Banner

  Then the kettle whistles, and Mercy lifts it daintily off the heat.

  “A kettle and a mug,” murmurs Mercy, presenting it to the woman in her study with a light smile.

  The woman accepts it with a half-disgusted curl from her lips. “This kettle was cleaned, yes? Ugh, no use. It’s no use. Pour me a sip. Goodness, who trained you? Hurry, hurry. My belly. Hurry.”

  Mercy takes her time pouring a mug of steaming hot water for the sweetest old woman on the planet. “My Lady.”

  The woman takes the mug, then winces as she brings it to her lips and gives the top a gentle blow. “Too hot. You’ve made it all too hot. Don’t you know not to burn your Lords’ and Ladies’ mouths?” Suddenly, the woman sighs. “I’m away from home. Please, I am not often like this. So insufferable the slums have made me. Really, if your kind were less dirty and more cognizant of hygiene, I would be so much more relaxed here in the Hightowers. Why do they call it the Hightowers?” she asks suddenly, turning annoyed again. “There isn’t a single ‘high tower’ in this whole filthy place. How about the broadcast, girl? Does the broadcast work? Girl. Turn it on.”

  Mercy glances at the window. Still no sign. She musters another scrap or two of patience as she saunters across the room, fumbles with the screen of the broadcast for the switch—likely a Lifted tech broadcast, from the looks of it. Where the fuck is the switch on this thing?—and then finally (by accident) flicks the thing on.

  A blank screen hums at them, showing nothing.

  “Keep it on, girl,” the woman states the moment Mercy moves her hand to switch it back off. “The King or his Court may address us at any time of day. I wish to be prepared. The second that the King welcomes us back to the Lifted City, I am reclaiming my house in the Eastly. Oh, I beg for the day. I beg for the day.” The woman takes a sip of her hot water. “Yes, nearly right, nearly right.”

  Mercy gives her the briefest of bows. “If you need anything, I’ll be tending to the up.”

  The woman doesn’t seem to acknowledge her, which is just as well, because if Mercy hears another complaint from this insufferable Lifted Lady, she’ll plant a knife straight into her.

  Upstairs, however, Mercy doesn’t do a damned thing but stand at the front window facing the street and searching for the others. If she doesn’t hear from them in five minutes, she’s going to abort the mission—fuck waiting until the moon is at high—and cut one of their throats for putting her through all of this torture for nothing. She holds no loyalty to any of them, anyway.

  Well, except for maybe Scot, who’s such a soft and cushy man-boy that Mercy doesn’t have the heart to hurt him. Scot suffered for a time among the Sisters Of Sisters with Mercy, being the only one who was not a “sister” at all, but rather a runaway coward man from the Lifted City. He’s since nurtured an affinity for her, which he showed peculiarly by stealing the dull ring she wears on her finger—a ring given to her by her dead lover Dran to promise their marriage.

  Mercy glances down at the ring still upon her finger. She takes a deep breath, then lets it all out with a grimace. I’m doing this all for you, she reminds that ring darkly. The ones who got away with executing you and your brother Fylan, they will pay. And anyone who gets in my way will pay the price, too. Ruena Netheris, whose suicide I do not believe for a second, will die by the point of my knife, as will every member of Sanctum from one Lifted end to the other. Your death will be avenged, my love.

  Four minutes left, and counting.

  Fuck it.

  Mercy draws her knife and heads back down the stairs. She has still heard no sign, and doesn’t care to wait a second longer. The old Lifted Lady’s apple is now hers, and it will fill Mercy’s heart with so much pleasure to take a hearty bite of it.

  But when she reaches the foot of the stairs, she finds a face on the broadcast. Mercy freezes at the archway.

  “I … I-I know that … that you are … that many of you are afraid. I was once afraid,” timidly states the young woman on the broadcast. “But I assure you: the Madness is over. King Impis is no longer King. He has fallen to the Adult’s sleep.”

  Mercy stares at the girl on the broadcast in wonder. She is a plain, unremarkable, boring-looking thing with a pallid complexion, a forgettable face, long black hair, and wearing a set of blue-rimmed glasses. And this forgettable nobody is on the broadcast somehow, up there in the Lifted City, addressing all of the Last City of Atlas—well, whomever has a functioning broadcast and electricity at this very moment—with her deadpan, monotonous, dull tone of voice.

  “Many of you may not know who I am. Perhaps none of you do. That’s okay. I’m used to it.” The girl’s every word is more flat and unenthusiastic as the last. “But I am actually from the slums … like you. I was picked from a Legacy Exam years ago and welcomed to the Windstone Academy during the reign of Good King Greymyn. The Kingship is kind. The Kingship is good.”

  “Poor girl,” murmurs the old woman from her chair, her mug of hot water forgotten. “Slum girl.”

  “I also know what it is to be Lifted,” the girl goes on. “Many of you listening to this may have fled the Lifted City during Impis Lockfyre’s reign. I know your wishes and I know your wants. Many of you out there listening to this—slumborn and skyborn alike—may have suffered greatly the chaos inflicted by Impis Lockfyre and his red light. What he did was unforgiveable. Like King Borbar from five hundred years ago, the King of Wrath who destroyed the once-prestigious twelfth ward. But we can start a new era, together. Slum and sky. Lifted and Lower. I was good friends with Ruena Almont-Sunsong Netheris. No one knew it, but we were good friends. Close friends. I … I … I am just as saddened by the news of her demise as you. And it thusly lays upon my shoulders a certain responsibility to fulfill her mission of uniting us, Atlas, into one. All of us.”

  Mercy and the old woman both stare at the screen in a stupor.

  “And so … I now officially announce my sitting upon the throne of Atlas. And I do so with … with a heavy yet hopeful heart.” The girl lifts her chinless chin. Even her declaration in this moment sounds as lukewarm as day-old bread. “I, Erana Sparrow, am now the Queen of Atlas. I am the Queen of Unity, as our dearly departed Ruena wished herself to be. I am Queen Erana Sparrow, Queen of Unity, the Queen who has ended the Madness. Now, our work to rebuild Atlas begins.”

  The Queen—Is this real? Should I even call her such a ridiculous thing, this girl who looks like the fool at the back of my class everyone ignored, professor included?—keeps talking through the broadcast. But her words pass by Mercy’s ears like wind.

  Ruena isn’t dead. Mercy knows that because she must be the one to kill her. No, if Ruena truly killed herself, if Ruena truly took that path out of this mortal mess, I will find a way to bring her back to life only so that I may kill her myself.

  Mercy’s face tightens.

  So does her grip on the knife at hand.

  “A slum girl?” blurts the old woman, shaking her head. “Upon the throne of Atlas?” She looks as if she can’t catch her breath.

  “A slum girl …” mutters Mercy, slack-jawed.

  “Oh, what troubled times we live in. Why?” The woman sighs with such irritation, her lips flap. “What a fool. Oh, who might allow this? Who is up there? Who are her Marshals? Her advisors? What idiots in Sanctum!” Then suddenly her eyes flash. “Oh, I know the girl, I just realized. Yes, I know her! Oh, it’s coming to me …”

  Mercy is still dazed by the broadcast. This girl, this Queen Erana of the Boring Voice, she speaks as if reciting words off a script. This girl, this obvious Queen of Excitement, she drones on and on about her plans, yet Mercy still doesn’t hear a word of it. A slum girl …

  “Yes, that’s right! It’s Desura’s girl,” states the old woman at last. “Desura, the woman down the street! She said she had a girl named Erana who … who was pulled from this very ward for her Legacy of memory. Yes. That’s what she does. She remembers things.”

  “No one will remember her,” murmurs
Mercy distractedly, still staring at the broadcast.

  The old woman doesn’t seem to hear her anyway. “Oh, what a terrible thing, what a … what a sad and terrible thing. The Queen of Atlas … a Queen of the sixth ward slums. My husband would … would have … oh, I wish I’d gone to the grave with him. Oh, I’ve seen it all now. This ugly world we live in. Disgusting …”

  “Desura’s daughter, you say. Desura is a woman on this street?” asks Mercy vaguely, her bewildered eyes still on this Erana Queen.

  “Yes, obviously, just as I said. Can you not listen the first time I say things, girl? Two blocks and around the bend. A house with a purple porch. Desura Sparrow’s her name.”

  “Thank you,” states Mercy, then absentmindedly pulls the knife across the old woman’s throat. Mercy still stares at Erana’s face on the broadcast as the old woman doubles over, gagging on her own lifeblood while it spills over the kettle and the mug and her gown. The old woman reaches for the air as she tumbles to the floor.

  The Lifted Lady is still dying when the front door, at long last, bursts open, and Scot’s round face appears with two others at his side. “Mercy!” he calls out. His eyes drop to the old woman on the floor, then flash with alarm. “Oh, no … Mercy. W-What’d you do??”

  “You’re late,” Mercy answers calmly, then turns. “And I know our next mission … and it will be our final one.”

  0254 Erana

  She sits back, the screen having gone blank, the light on the big camera vanishing.

  “Good,” comes a voice from behind. “You did very good. I nearly believed every word you said.”

  Erana Sparrow doesn’t move a muscle. She only stares at that blank screen, all the words she just uttered echoing about in her ears, each of them unforgotten, each of them cold and sharp and cruel.

  “But you do know,” the voice—Axel’s voice—comes again, “that if you ever challenge me, or defy me, or attempt to work any sort of clever way around my orders … you will go back into your mental prison. I will make you forget everything except the worst of pains you’ve ever known, and I will invent new ones for you to suffer.”

  “I understand,” murmurs Erana listlessly, staring at that stupid, big, dumb, useless blank screen.

  “Imagine the worst emotional turmoil you can possibly suffer, Erana, the absolute worst … and my punishment for you will be even worse.” The stab of Axel’s six-inch heels clack, clack, clack as the tall woman comes into view at Erana’s side. “You are the named Queen of Atlas, but it is I who is truly Queen. It is I whose orders you follow. Thanks to your Legacy, I can recite any number of speeches to you, and you will deliver them perfectly with no error whatsoever. I need not even write them down. The whole of Atlas will believe them to be your words, since your eyes will be upon the camera at all times. You must have them believe you are truly Queen. Understand?”

  “Yes,” recites Erana.

  “But you are not truly Queen. You are my puppet.”

  “I understand.”

  Erana finds it curious, how her image on the broadcast looked so comfortable and bold, and yet after the screen went dark and now all it shows is a bland reflection of her true self, she looks so sad and sickly. Did Atlas see the sad and sickly girl in mental chains? Or did they truly see a Queen?

  “Next time, we will put upon your head a crown,” Axel decides. “Yes, I should have thought of that. You must think of these things, Erana. Are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t wish to repeat a single thing I say.” The woman paces across the Crystal Court stage, her heels stabbing the glassy tiles beneath her, the sounds echoing about the seats and glass columns like strange, crystalline creatures screeching in protest. “You ought to count yourself lucky that I allow you the freedom to act as you are, to speak as you can, and to move about like a human being. I could easily take complete control of you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I could do it right now. I could take control of your body, of your mind, of your thoughts, of your speech, of your wishes, of your memories, of your desires, of your feelings, of your very opinions, of your fears.” Axel comes to another stop in front of Erana, blocking her view of the broadcast. Erana’s eyes drift up to meet Axel’s cold ones, high above her. The whites of the woman’s eyes flash, looking brilliant in the rich, dark sea of her skin. “Am I made clear?”

  “Yes. Perfectly clear.”

  “Shouldn’t you thank me for that?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Erana nods quickly. “Thank you for allowing me the freedom to be myself. I understand that my freedom comes with the necessary cost of doing everything and anything you ask. I will not disobey. I will be your Puppet Queen.”

  Axel studies her for an unsettlingly long time. Then: “Fine.”

  Two men approach the stage. Aegis, a bright blond young man of twenty-one years who can turn his arms into bony shields, comes to stand by Erana’s right side. Dregor, a man of thirty-one years with brown eyes that have vertically-slanted irises like a snake’s, stands at her left, his entire body wrapped in a skintight scaly armor save a circle cut out where his sandy-colored freckled face shows.

  “These men will follow you,” Axel announces. “Always, two of Impis’s Posse, at all times. You will never be alone, Erana, and I don’t mean that sweetly.”

  “Your meaning is clear,” states Erana politely.

  Axel’s voice is stern and merciless. “Your every action will be watched. Two, always, by your side. They will protect you, of course, but do not mistake it for compassion. You are being watched so that you never once even consider defying me.”

  “I understand.”

  “They will watch you wherever you go. They will watch you as you cross the Glassen square. They will watch you as you ascend the steps of Cloud Tower. They will watch you as you make a squat to piss in a toilet. They will watch you as you dress and as you undress. They will watch you as you bathe. Every minute. Every second. Of every day. You will be watched, Erana Sparrow, Queen of Nothing.”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  “Say it,” Axel demands, her eyes unblinking. “Say what you are. I want to hear the words.”

  “Erana Sparrow,” Erana recites. “I am Erana Sparrow, Queen of Nothing.”

  “You will never be trusted because you’ve already betrayed us. You let that Athan boy go. You aided my bitch sister Arcana and the traitor boy Sedge in their escape. For all I know, you even let Ruena get out of our grasp. You lived with her and loved her. You will never be trusted, Erana Sparrow, Queen of Shit and Lies.”

  There was already a Queen of Lies, once. Her name was Atricia.

  “Say it,” Axel demands.

  “I will never be trusted. I already betrayed you. I aided in the—”

  “Not all of it, you idiot. Say what you are.”

  “I am Erana Sparrow, Queen of Shit.”

  “And?”

  “Queen of Lies.”

  “And?”

  “Queen of Nothing.”

  “You are Erana Sparrow, never to be trusted, Queen of Lies and Shit and Nothing. You are my Puppet Queen.”

  “I am your Puppet Queen.”

  Axel’s lips flinch, and then suddenly—just as mad or madder than Impis Lockfyre himself—she is through with it all. The cold woman stalks away, the sharp, stabbing sound of her heels taking her out of the Crystal Court.

  Strangely, Erana feels little relief in her departure. It feels like Axel is in her head, always. She will never truly depart, not after what she’s done to me. I remember every nightmare. I remember the tiny shrinking room. I remember …

  “Axel is letting this newfound power of hers get to her head a bit, don’t you think?” murmurs Dregor softly to Aegis.

  Aegis’s eyes go wide. “Don’t speak of her like that.”

  “Oh, get off it.” Dregor shrugs. “The moment Impis wakes up, she will be returned to being the puppet. Isn’t that what this is? Just Axel’s moment of no
t being the puppet for once?”

  “Impis isn’t waking up.”

  “Oh, he is.” Dregor faces the Crystal Court with authority. “He will. I know it.” The man always looks so grand, like a King about to address all of his citizenry. He has always had an unexpected air of confidence and politeness about him, despite the nearly frightening appearance of his vertically-slit irises and permanently scaly, armor-like skin due to his morph Legacy. “It is just a matter of time before the man awakens. Why else are we caring for him, too? Why not let him truly die if he is never to wake?”

  “It would be disrespectful,” Aegis argues, puffing up his chest, his bright eyes flashing indignantly. “Even Axel knows that. Even Axel knows she owes everything to Impis Lockfyre for giving us the chance to blossom as we are.”

  “Blossom. Oh, what a strange word you’ve picked for a group of out-of-control, empowered slummers like us making a wreck of the Lifted City.” Dregor shakes his head in pity as he stares out at the Court. “Though I must say, we have cleaned up the place quite a bit over the months since Impis took his slumber. I daresay it’s nearly back to normal, save a few streets of wreckage we’ve yet to restore. And … the fact that the majority of our populace has escaped, living in the slums. It is a tad lonely up here at times.”

  “They’re all loyal, though, thanks to Axel,” Aegis points out.

  Dregor hisses a sigh at that. “It isn’t loyalty, my friend. It’s mere slavery of the mind, and it is wrong.”

  Aegis doesn’t say anything, his soft face observing the sky up above instead, as if wondering if they’re to expect some rain.

  Erana glances their way, finally pulling her eyes from the screen where her sad reflection keeps staring back. “May I see him?”

  Dregor and Aegis face her at once. Neither answer for a while, as if stunned by her ability to actually do or say anything that Axel did not order her to do, as if being reminded that she is a human.