by Daryl Banner
Forge frowns from his seat atop the crates. Something does not sit well with him. A man who is liked so quickly has a trick that I can’t yet see, a trick to his charisma. If there is anything Forge has learned from listening to the personable Lifted folk who speak on broadcasts and sell their idealism and encouragement to slumfolk beneath them, it’s that charisma is not a virtue. Charisma is a means to an end. It is a tool to bend others’ wills. It is a weapon.
And Geoff’s cunning blade of charisma is sharp, indeed.
“You look as if you want to gut someone hollow.”
Forge glances over at Wyass, from which the words came. “No.”
“Sorry.” Wyass chuckles nervously, then shuts up. “I hear banter back and forth between you and Aphne. It inspired me to … open up a bit. I apologize if I overstepped.”
Wyass is always squirrelly and apologizing twenty times a day, the short, stout man that he is. With arms like that, the guy could likely beat Forge in an armwrestling match ten times in a row, and yet he acts as if Forge is always a second away from squishing him beneath his foot like a bug.
“You ought to learn to apologize less,” Forge suggests, his gaze still on Geoff across the Great Hall. His little crowd of new friends just burst into riotous laughter at a thing he just said. Forge’s eyes narrow as he watches.
Wyass must follow his line of sight, because then he nervously turns back to Forge and mutters, “He’s a nice guy, sure, but I don’t much like the look of him.”
Forge gives Wyass a moment’s glance.
The stout man elaborates. “I think it’s something about his eyes. The way they … they look empty, yet urge you to trust them still.” He shakes his head. “And the sons are even stranger yet.”
“Don’t judge them too soon,” Forge advises against his own gut, which has, all this time, been filling with questions and suspicions. “They’ve only just arrived.”
“Perhaps I am simply uneasy with change. Is it true that we’re all to starve in another six months’ time?”
Forge’s gaze snaps to his at once. “Who told you this?”
Wyass’s head nearly shrinks into his shoulder’s like a turtle. “I’d only heard it from … from an armorer who’d heard it from a counter in the foodstores. Th-They said something about the rations, and—”
“We’ve enough to last us more than a year from now,” Forge argues back. “I’m the one whose mouth you ought to believe. I’m the one who knows.” He gives his head a firm tap with two rigid fingers.
Wyass nods quickly. “Of course. It was stupid to ask.”
“Not stupid to ask. Perhaps not smart to believe all you hear.” Forge props his elbows up on his knees, still observing Geoff and his crowd of friends, who only seem to grow and grow by the minute. Am I jealous? Forge considers. No one took a liking to me that quickly. The people here have only put me in charge because I am what I am. Because I know things. And my knowing things scares them.
He is only a ruler for the people’s fear of what he knows.
A tyrant also rules people by their fear.
“Slacking on your throne, are we?” comes Aphne’s voice.
Wyass and Forge turn toward her. She appears freshly sweaty from an inspection in the mines, the few longer strands of hair she keeps in the front plastered to her forehead in wet, unmoving spikes.
Wyass hops in place and sputters, “I-I’m sure my break ended a good few minutes ago. I oughtn’t upset my supervisor.” And then he is off like an alley cat spooked by a sudden noise, disappearing into the mineworker’s dim corridors.
Aphne leans tiredly against the crates, her shoulder near Forge’s dangling foot. They observe Geoff together in silence for some time. Then: “Quite a people person, isn’t he?”
“I don’t trust him,” mumbles Forge, the truth coming out.
“Smiles are difficult to trust, indeed,” Aphne agrees with a nod. “After all, the only way one can lie is with a smile and a firm gaze.”
Forge nudges her shoulder with his foot. “I don’t like when you call these crates my throne.”
She snorts and shoves his foot away with her shoulder. “It’s the only place you come to when you’re not managing. It’s your perch. What’s a King to do all day in Cloud Tower up in the sky but perch?”
“I am neither King nor a man who perches.”
“You’re perching right now.”
At once, the crowd bursts into another laughter, and then they slowly begin to disperse. Geoff cuts through them shaking the hand of a fellow Forge used to work alongside with back when this place was run by Sanctum and called the Keep, a fellow from the mines. He can’t remember his name and it matters not; Forgemon’s Legacy is with numbers, not with names. To his surprise, he notes that two of the supervisors from the foodstores were among the crowd the whole time, finding it more important to chat with the newcomer than to tend to their duties.
When Geoff passes by, he catches Forge’s gaze and stops with a bright smile. “Hello, friend.” His words are made squeaky from his tightened, jovial throat. He nods at Aphne, noticing her. “Friends,” he amends. “The folk here are kind, each and every one of them.”
Forge finds that while he can’t quite return the smile, a heavy block of guilt settles upon his chest for all his bitter thoughts he had before. Jealousy is no reason to hate a man, especially when such a man’s kind demeanor is doing nothing but enriching the lives of his fellow citizens. Maybe I am judging too quickly. “Yes,” Forge agrees mildly. “They are. The Undercity is a safe place.”
Geoff’s smile spreads wider. “That it is.” He faces Aphne. “I’ve been assigned to the armory. I had an eye and arm for metalworking in my youth, as my father was a tinker, and his father before him.”
Aphne nods slowly, then hugs her clipboard to her chest. “Forge here was a tinker, too.”
“Aye, was he? He has the look.” Geoff throws Forge a wink.
Forge does not return it.
Just then, the two supervisors from the foodstores walk right past them, making their way back to their posts. Forge feels his chest tighten suddenly as they stroll by and pay Forge no mind. The pair of them even share a joke between themselves—about which, Forge can’t know—then laugh heartily. He watches them, annoyed.
“Well, I suppose I shall be on my way, then.” Geoff gives them both a quick nod, then turns to leave.
Forge hops off his stack of crates at once, his heavy feet slapping the concrete beneath them. “Geoff. A word.”
The man stops and turns, eyebrows lifting expectantly. “Yes?”
Forge’s lips twitch with irritation as he faces the man everyone has so quickly come to love. In his presence, it is a lot more difficult to suspect him of anything untoward at all, but Forge holds his gut firmly and keeps to his conviction like a precious item. He swallows once, steels himself, then makes his point plain: “Do not distract any more of my supervisors from their posts and duties.”
Geoff’s eyes turn to stone. Even Aphne stiffens right up, slowly turning her face to Forge in bewilderment.
Perhaps I could have worded it more politely. Nevertheless, Forge clenches his teeth and stands firmly. “Two of them were from the foodstores, and they ought to be supervising, counting, and reporting back. They were among your little group there, chatting along.”
“Oh.” Geoff attempts to laugh it off. “No worries, of course. One of them said it was their break, in fact. They’d been working since—”
“One of them,” Forge emphasizes curtly. “There are always two supervisors working at a time. With but three in each agency, we do not have the luxury of two supervisors being on break at once.”
Geoff glances back and forth between Aphne. “Alright, then.”
“Alright, then,” agrees Forge, unsmiling.
Aphne clears her throat and interjects. “I mean, we know you mean well. Everyone is excited. You’re a new face, after all, and—”
“Perhaps it may also be noted,” Geof
f cuts her off, a tinge of forced politeness in his tone, “that the supervisors ought to know when they are allowed to go on break and when they are not.”
“They know.” Forge’s words are two slams of a smith’s hammer to an anvil.
Geoff regards him with a moment of uncertain stillness. Aphne shifts her weight from one leg to the other. Then Geoff gives a nod, puts on a smile, and folds his hands over his front. “Understood.”
“We have duties for your sons as well,” Forge goes on, “but they will only work as many hours as befits their age and capability. If I am not mistaken, they are surveying the housing agency right now. You may find them down the corridors from the east end of the Great Hall past the exercise area and kitchens.”
Geoff nods at him with due courtesy, but his eyes speak of an entirely different tale. He’s been fed a spoonful of Forge’s authority and seems to not savor its taste. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he responds anyway. “I will … go see to my sons.” Then, in an instant, the charm is back on as he glances at Aphne. “Hopefully I’ll not distract any of the cooks on my way, lest none of them work and we have nothing to eat for our evening supper.”
Aphne, despite herself, chuckles at his joke. Forge does not.
Satisfied, Geoff turns and heads for the housing, waving at a few new friends of his he’s made as he goes. Not a person walks past him who doesn’t acknowledge him in some way, whether with a nod, a wave, or even a smile and a word. Forge watches it all, calculating, figuring, frustrated.
And only when Geoff is completely out of sight do the numbers and math, at long last, click in place. “Legacy.”
Aphne stirs from a daze she was caught in. “What?”
“His Legacy.” Forge is still staring after the man, even long after he’s gone. “He puts others at ease. He makes others trust him. His charisma is his Legacy.”
Aphne lets out an annoyed sigh. “Now you’ve gone from simple suspicion to outright paranoia. I need to take a shit. Mind your pretty throne, King.” She gives Forge a smack on his arm as she walks off.
Forge continues to stew, more convinced with every passing second of his conviction. He is certain that explains why people have taken so quickly to Geoff, including himself. The man’s charisma is a deception all on its own, and since charisma is a weapon, then Forge ought to consider the man armed at all times. And I best arm myself too, lest I allow the father of two to get the better of me.
0301 Rone
Rone hasn’t eaten since yesterday evening when Wick brought him a plate from the camp’s dinner. He only was able to eat six bites of it before the guilt and pain took him over again.
He stands at the closed door of Chief Cagemont’s cabin. No one is around. It may be a solemn time for the people of Gaea, who are still mourning, but the atmosphere is unsettlingly calm and normal, as if that whole nightmarish event was just a passing dream that, somehow, everyone in the camp seemed to share.
Rone knocks on the door.
When it’s pulled open, Korah is standing there. Wick is seated at the mapping table, Puras next to him. The pair rise from their seats.
Rone imagines they are all rather surprised to see him. It’s the first time he’s left Wick’s cabin in days. “Hello,” he tries.
Korah gives him a nod. “Rone,” she says for a greeting.
Something passes between them, like an understanding of sorts, but kinder. Rone wonders if she just alleviated him of the fear that sat in him for the very thing he’s come here to say. If only she knew what fear she just took from my chest …
“Rone,” says Wick as he approaches a few paces, then stops. “I was going to bring you some lunch. They’re making a kettle of stew in an hour or so.”
“It’s fine,” Rone replies. “I’m not hungry, turns out. I’ve …” Well, why not get right to the point? “I’ve come to the decision to leave Gaea permanently.”
The three in the room stand still as stone at those words.
Then: “No,” says Wick. “You can’t.”
“I have to.” Rone looks between him, Puras, and Korah, whose eyes are particularly softer than usual, maybe even sad. “I’m not only responsible for … for what happened …”
“No, you’re not,” interjects Korah. “It was a freak accident. It’s not the fault of anyone but nature itself. We know where we live. In the midst of the Wilds. We know the risks we take.”
“Yes, but none of us chose to be here,” Rone goes on, adamant to make his point. The sinking look on Wick’s face doesn’t make it any easier to talk. “When I came, I brought a bit of the Wild with me.”
“And without that Wild,” Korah points out, “several more lives than Kraag’s might have been taken that night.”
“It’s true,” says Puras in a tiny voice. “I … I would’ve been eaten alive by one of them. My cabin has no doors. Chaos, too. The both of us. Maybe even—”
“Maybe even myself,” Korah picks up. “So stop with this pitying of yourself. You’re not going anywhere.”
“I am.” Rone looks to Wick, a steely resolve upon his face, his spine straightening. “It is also my fault that Dran—”
“I won’t hear of his name,” Korah spits out.
“That Dran is braving those sands alone, if it is Atlas he is truly pursuing. I have to accept that responsibility, too.” Rone shakes his head. “I can’t live here a day longer. I can’t …” He’s cried enough tears over the past few days that all that comes now is a dry, choked rasp from deep within him. “I can’t.”
Silence swells in the cabin during which only a breeze from outside can be heard, pushing its way through the window at the back of the cabin. Tree branches sway and clatter against each other, filling the silence.
At once, Wick slaps a hand to the table. “I’m coming with you.”
Korah snaps her eyes to him. “No, you’re not.”
“If there is a way back into Atlas,” Wick tells her, “then now is the time to push for it. We have more than one Legacy—”
“I won’t hear any of this,” states Korah. She takes three steps toward Wick, each of them stamping the creaky wooden floor. “You are not in charge here. You do not get to decide what—”
“We are all free here to do as we please,” Wick asserts.
“You’re a fool, then!” she shouts, losing her composure.
Rone comes forward. “Wick, please, don’t do this just because I am. Unlike you—well, unlike any of you—I’ve actually lived out there. I know the Wilds. I survived this long on my own, and I can do it again. Look, if I get lonely, I’ll simply find Metal Hand and make the big bastard touch me again.”
“This is not a t-time for jokes,” stammers Wick, tears in his eyes.
Rone comes up to his friend and wraps his arms around him. “I am going to make it to Atlas, and I’m going to find a way to bring all of you back. I took away the Madness. I know I did. It can only be better in that city now for all of us. It must be.”
“You’re not going alone,” breathes Wick over Rone’s shoulder, tears coming. “You can’t.”
Rone squeezes him tighter. He doesn’t say anything to that. He knows that Wick should stay behind and continue to survive with these people he’s grown close to over the months. Somehow, a part of Rone always knew he was just passing through Wick’s life. It was always going to end, this happy island of paradise.
Rone pulls away, looks into Wick’s eyes, says, “Yes, I am,” then puts a firm and meaningful kiss on his best friend’s cheek. He looks into his buddy’s eyes again. “This is not the last time you’ll see my face, Anwick Lesser of the ninth. Because when we are reunited, you will be of the ninth again, I promise you that.”
Tears spill from Wick’s face, and the boys clutch one another again, tighter than they’ve ever hugged before. The boys, for so long, don’t let go of each other. This isn’t goodbye, Rone has to tell himself, over and over. This isn’t goodbye. This isn’t goodbye. This isn’t goodbye.
0302 A
than
In truth, Athan was relieved to be assigned the mission. It gave him something to do. It gave him a purpose. And it gave him a chance to explore the lesser-known streets of the slums, a thing he used to dream of and long for when he was just a silly Lifted boy with his nose pressed against the glass windows of Broadmore Manor, staring down at the world.
Now he’s in that world.
Somehow, he still doesn’t quite believe it himself.
The brave party of four walk under an old rail (none of them work anymore, every bit of electricity drained from them, what with the lack of production from Atlas’s central source, wherever it is). The old rail is raised about the height of a three-story building, and it guides them along, leading them straight along the edge of the ninth, through the thinnest part of the eighth, and into the Core.
It was supposed to be a brave party of three, but the lost slum pup that is Nickel clearly had nothing else he’d rather do in the Last City of Atlas than accompany Athan on this little adventure. Arrow put up no objection to the added party member, even though Edrick seemed particularly annoyed. Athan simply saw it as another set of eyes, and what could be more helpful than another set of eyes?
Maybe it was more. Maybe Athan needed emotional support of some kind that couldn’t come from anyone else. Nickel adored him, and he knew that. When this orange-haired Nickel boy looked his way, the boy’s eyes flooded with longing and worship and wonder.
It made Athan feel good.
Perhaps it’s selfish, but it helps.
When they enter the Core—a central section of Atlas accessible by only a few of the wards at which the most Pylons exist that hold up the Lifted City—it becomes the final member of their party that gives Athan pause.
The mystery that is Locke.
He is the brother of a ninth ward lady named Hadie, who Athan has no relationship with, but who apparently knows many people in the ninth, including Wick’s parents, who are no longer around. The thing that bothers Athan is that her brother has only recently come to the ninth, as recently as a month ago. Before then, she hadn’t seen her brother Locke since they were thirteen and fifteen, respectively. Locke had run off as a teen, gotten into a bunch of trouble and who-knows-what for ten years, and returned in a state that Hadie hardly recognized. Something changed Locke on the streets, something he refused even to tell her.