Beyond Oblivion

by Daryl Banner

  Apparently Arcana was no help in pulling the truth from Locke and his locked mind. The young man was a complete mystery, due in large part to his cloaking Legacy, the operation of which Athan still doesn’t understand.

  Locke stops at an intersection and lifts his hand warningly, his eyes darting around. He wears skintight pants cinched by three black ropes that dangle over his ass, bouncing along his knees and thighs whenever he moves. His shirt is dark grey with buttons, though the buttons seem to serve no purpose, as only the bottom few are done, and the rest of his shirt is pulled wide open, his chest visible with a small patch of hair between his pecs. A black scarf is wrapped about his forehead, a tuft of dark hair sneaking out the top and bottom, and he has a scar that runs down his face and lips.

  “What is it?” asks Athan.

  Edrick glances off to the left, then points. “I hear it,” he says.

  Locke puts a finger to his lips, signaling all of them to silence. Athan and the others can only obey, waiting, watching.

  Almost every building in the Core is magnificently tall and looks made of an off-white plastic, shiny in some parts, dirtied by smog and dirt and smoke in others. Every building looks attached to its neighbor in some way, too, whether by an over-the-street tunnel or walkway, or by giant steel tubes and cables, or by some wide upper-floor wing that connects the buildings, making them look as one. It might remind Athan of the more industrial sections of the Westly if it weren’t for the sinister feeling around every corner that something mechanical or deadly was eyeing them, preparing to make an attack.

  Then, from down the street, a chrome caravan appears. As it comes nearer, Athan glances back at Locke, alarmed. Are we not going to hide or head the other way or—? But before he can complete his thoughts, the caravan comes close enough for them to catch sight of two stern-looking fully-armored Guardian driving it, and then at last whizzes past them, not a single person or thing regarding the four of them at all.

  While Athan still appears lost, Edrick nods at Locke admiringly. “Ah, I see now. Cloaking.”

  Locke purses his lips, looking rather cocky when he does so. “If you keep perfectly still, it works best.” He gives half a wink at Nickel. “You’ll need to work on the keeping-perfectly-still part, boy.”

  Nickel bristles. “I was as still as a statue!”

  “Then statues in the eighth must twitch a lot,” teases Locke.

  Athan refers to his hand-drawn map given courtesy of (and slightly reluctantly by) Pratganth, then nods ahead. “This way.”

  The four move down the strange, unfriendly streets and alleys and tunnels of the Core. On nearly every street, they pass by a Pylon that stretches high above their heads, connecting to the belly of the Lifted City. Absolutely no sky can be seen in these parts, the only light coming from strips of glowing plastic along the roads and lining some of the buildings. They avoid streets and areas where it seems that no light touches, whether it be because the electricity does not reach those parts, or electricity has run dry in them.

  Perhaps the Core was less scary before the Fall of Sanctum, and all was brightly lit and welcoming.

  But somehow, Athan doubts it.

  “We need a rest,” Nickel complains as they pass under another enormous, daunting Pylon, this one appearing to be slightly leaning. “We’ve been walking nonstop for twelve hours now, it seems.”

  “Barely four,” responds Edrick in a less-than-sympathetic tone.

  “We could still use a rest. Perhaps a meal, too,” he throws in.

  Athan brings them to a stop by a spread of very narrow streets holding rows upon rows of tall, windowless warehouses. At this part of the Core, the map becomes less helpful. “We have a great deal more of the Core to pass through,” Athan points out to the others. “And once we get through, we’ll be entering the first ward, and thus, the Slum King’s territory …” Athan frowns. “… according to the map.”

  Locke points toward the rows of warehouses. “I spent a time or so here. The Core, being mostly used for industrial purposes rather than hospitality and sweetness, isn’t exactly going to have hotels on every corner. We’ll need to be creative.” He gives a nod toward the warehouses. “I suggest we slip into one of them, preferably one with food and running water.”

  “I have some from the ninth if we can’t find any,” points out Edrick with a pat on the one-strap satchel he wears across his body. “Auleen and Iranda were ever generous.”

  “Ever generous,” agrees Locke with half a smile. Then he turns to Athan. “Is that the plan? Our whiny boy can get his rest as well.”

  Nickel, too occupied with picking something off his elbow, does not seem to hear the taunt.

  Athan nods. “Let us find a place to rest, then.”

  Surprisingly, the task doesn’t turn out difficult at all. The four go from warehouse door to warehouse door, trying each one, until on their third warehouse, they finally find a loose door. In they go, and when their blinking eyes adjust to the semidarkness, they discover the warehouse is one that stores various textiles and rolls of fabric.

  It’s upon a pile of these rolls in the corner of the warehouse that the four of them make camp. Locke finds a running faucet, under which he washes his hands, then makes a quick bath of his neck and hair and feet after kicking off his shoes. Edrick is next, but only slaps water upon his neck and face, moaning with pleasure as he does so.

  Sometime later when Edrick is picking Locke’s brain on various goings-on in the Core and the Core-side of the eighth, Athan and Nickel are lying on the soft, wrinkly bundles of fabric like a giant bed and staring up at the high metal ceiling, which their minimal light from a small plastic glowing ribbon lining the wall doesn’t touch.

  “You’re too sullen,” says Nickel.

  To that, Athan has to laugh. “Being focused is not being sullen.”

  Nickel shakes his head. “You need to be lighter. You need to … open up more. You were free in the battle pits, weren’t you? I think you miss the fighting.”

  “I don’t miss it.” Athan turns his head to face the orange-haired boy. He didn’t realize how close the two of them were lying next to each other on the messy bundles of fabric. “I never liked making other people hurt.”

  “Are you really Lifted?”

  Athan sighs. “Didn’t we go over this already? In great detail?”

  “Sorry. I just …” Nickel looks away and huffs, frustrated. “I’m used to being lied to. I’ve been lied to a lot, in fact.”

  He watches the side of Nickel’s face, watches as it twists up with emotion, decides not to express it, then stuffs it down with a grimace. The boy doesn’t say much else.

  Athan squints at him. “I think what you need is a cheering up.”

  Nickel turns back to him. “A what?”

  “Cheering up. You need a laugh. Here.”

  Athan sits up on the fabric and crosses his legs. Nickel, after a frown of confusion, follows suit with a grunt. “What are we—?”

  “Sit in front of me. Like this, cross-legged, and look into my eyes plainly. Just do it,” he adds when he sees Nickel’s hesitation.

  Nickel sits as Athan is, cross-legged and upright, the two boys facing each other. Nickel lifts his eyebrows, which brings out the brilliant blue in his eyes. Everything about this boy is soft, from his eyes to his nose to even the way he pouts his lips when he’s saying nothing at all.

  Yet as Athan himself paid witness to, when the boy gets mad, he rages like a storm caught in a bottle and raises his voice so fiercely, it could shatter the glass of nearby windows.

  “We’re going to play a game,” Athan tells him. “It’s a game my brother Radley used to play with me when I was sulky.”

  Nickel frowns. “I’m not sulky.”

  “It’s called the Legacy Game. To play, we have to look into each other’s eyes.” Athan stretches his open, almost silly. “Like this.”

  Nickel stares into Athan’s eyes for no more than two and a half seconds before sighing a
nd looking away. “I don’t want to do this.”

  “You came to the ninth looking for a new home. But I think you came looking for more.”

  “What do you mean? It was to help my mother with her grief.”

  “But you’ve grief, too. And until you’ve dealt with it—”

  “There’s no dealing with losing your siblings.”

  “Hmm, maybe not. Maybe not ever,” Athan agrees, thinking of his own grief and all the strange, unexpected ways it’s poured out of him. “So we must deal with it in a cleverer way. We deal with it in small ways. With games.” He pats his thighs, then points at his eyes. “Like the Legacy Game. Look into my eyes.”

  Nickel frowns. Then he lets out a huff, shimmies his shoulders, and brings his eyes to Athan, indulging him unhappily.

  “There.” Athan smiles. “The rules are simple.”

  “Rules?”

  “Yes, rules. It’s a game, is it not? Now listen.” Athan straightens his face. “You gotta look into my eyes and not laugh, alright?”

  “Alright.”

  “And I have to do the same. The game is played like this. I tell you what my Legacy is, except I must lie. I must tell you the most ridiculous Legacy I can think of.”

  Nickel isn’t amused in the least. “Uh, okay.”

  “Then you do the same. You tell me your Legacy, except you’ll make it up. The first one of us to laugh, loses. We can keep a score.”

  “This is a stupid game.”

  “No, no, it’s great, it’s just perfect. Radley and I used to play it all the time. It never failed to make me feel better. Come now, let’s start. Round one.”

  “I don’t want to—”

  “Round one. I’ll go.” Athan takes a deep breath, then stares into Nickel’s eyes, fiercely, firmly. Some time passes, and then Athan, in a very serious tone, says, “My Legacy is in turning my nose purple.”

  Nickel smirks, staring back at him. Too long a moment goes by before he flinches and wrinkles his face. “Oh, it’s my turn now?”

  “Go, go.” Athan nods. “What’s your Legacy?”

  Nickel, flat-faced as a plank of wood, stares into Athan’s eyes. “My Legacy is …” He looks up in frustration, searching for one.

  “No, no, you have to look at my eyes,” Athan protests.

  Nickel scoffs, then brings his brilliant blue gaze back to Athan’s. “My Legacy …” He thinks awhile. “My Legacy is making all my hair stand straight up.”

  Athan stares into the boy’s eyes. “My Legacy is making every meal around me taste like soap.”

  “Ew.”

  “Go, go. Your turn.”

  Nickel licks his full, pouty lips. “My Legacy is burping loudly.”

  “My Legacy is farting out of my ears.”

  Nickel cracks a smile. “My Legacy is turning the tips of my ears into wings and flying away.”

  Athan presses his lips together, fighting a laugh. “My Legacy,” he retorts, his words strained, “is in magically rearranging furniture in peoples’ houses when they’re not home.”

  That’s the one, strangely, that makes Nickel burst out laughing. “What kind of Legacy is that??”

  “One that made you laugh!” shouts Athan. “Alright, I have one point, you have zero.”

  “We’re keeping score??”

  “Yes! And I’ve a point. Now you begin this next round.”

  Nickel bites his lip, squints, and thinks. The boys stare intently at each other’s eyes, quite suddenly invested and determined to win. “My Legacy is to make it rain pee from the sky.”

  “My Legacy is in making toast taste like grass.”

  “My Legacy is to cause your toes to become super ticklish.”

  “My Legacy is giving other men boners, but at very inopportune times.”

  Nickel cracks a smile, and through his smile, counters with: “My Legacy is making men’s boners sing music when they’re excited.”

  At that, Athan laughs, and the boys become tied.

  The next round is rapid fire, one by one by one. “My Legacy is in changing the—”

  “My Legacy is to control others’—”

  “My Legacy is causing—”

  On and on the boys go. Even Edrick and Locke have abandoned their conversation, taking a seat some distance away on another fold of fabric to pay witness to Athan and Nickel’s curious game. Edrick and Locke have the freedom to laugh at will, making it all the more difficult for Athan and Nickel to keep straight faces.

  And then: “My Legacy is in making everyone laugh stupidly.”

  It is Nickel who says it. And whatever Athan was about to retort with sits unspoken on his tongue, and the note of humor in his face slowly withers to nothing. Before Athan’s eyes, he no longer sees Nickel. He sees that throne room, and the Mad King on the throne, and the maniacal laughter that spills from everyone’s lips, the mania of the Mad King’s Legacy as it tickles every person within reach, as it makes everyone laugh and laugh and laugh.

  The laughter still rings in Athan’s ears, even all this time later.

  Nickel, oblivious to the effect his words had on Athan, gives him a poke at his thigh with a finger. “Well …?” he prods him. “It’s your turn. Let’s hear your Legacy!”

  Athan, still keeping his gaze on Nickel, but now more somber, says, “My Legacy … is in hurting anyone who gets close to me.”

  A flicker of confusion passes over Nickel’s eyes. He experiences a second of uncertainty before taking his turn. “My Legacy is in … in making my pants fill up with candy.”

  “My Legacy is in being the one and only who survives.”

  Nickel frowns. “My Legacy is … is …”

  Athan says his next one without letting Nickel finish his own. “My Legacy is watching everyone I know and love slip away.”

  The fun has left Nickel’s eyes. “Have I said something wrong?”

  “I think we have played enough rounds. You win.” Athan rises from the folds of fabric and walks away. Nickel says something to his back, calls his name twice, and Edrick gently hushes him and says a few words that Athan can’t hear.

  It doesn’t matter. Athan is already several aisles away from the others, sitting on a turned-over crate, staring at the floor, and trying not to be in that throne room.

  He wonders suddenly if he’s been stuck in that throne room for half a year.

  I wonder if I ever left that room.

  “Hey, mister mopey.”

  Athan doesn’t respond to Edrick’s voice. The pleasure boy takes a seat next to him on the cold concrete floor, then leans his petite and bony head against Athan’s knee.

  Athan speaks first. “I can’t help the Nickel boy.”

  “No one expects you to. He isn’t your family or your lover.”

  “I don’t think I ever helped myself.”

  “Welcome to the club.”

  “Am I ever going to be okay?” Athan realizes his questions may be rhetorical. He asks them anyway. “Am I ever going to move on from that … from that fucking throne room?”

  “You’re the one still wearing his jacket,” points out Edrick.

  Perhaps it was the wrong thing to say. Athan rises and walks away, his face flushed red with anger, or sadness, or something else much darker. He doesn’t listen to Edrick calling his name, and when he finds himself a new spot somewhere else in the warehouse to stew, all alone, he is relieved to hear no one coming for him.

  He takes off the red sleeveless hoodie, hugs it tightly against his sweaty, shirtless torso, and breathes in deep. He inhales, inhales, and inhales some more. He inhales until he’s dizzy.

  “The day will come …” Athan realizes, his heart frozen in place like a stone, “… that I don’t smell you anymore in this jacket.”

  Silence fills his ears, silence so thick it makes them ring.

  Then he inhales some more.

  0303 Halvesand

  A couple of days, perhaps even five, have passed when Halves sits on a chair in his room and stares
across the small, dim space at his metal lantern on the table. Its light flickers and dances, burning upon an oil that’s on its last. He’d better go to the chamber two more floors down to refill its oil before he’s without light for the night.

  But first: an unexpected visitor. “Halvesand!” cries the skinny young Guardian called Cope.

  Halves lifts his eyes to him, but doesn’t turn, staring at the boy out the side of his face.

  Cope, perhaps to spare him the effort, invites himself in and stands before Halves. “We’re next to one another!” Cope exclaims cheerily. “Can you believe it? Kael Mirand-Thrin lives! We have a true Queen of Atlas! A real and true Queen! I spoke to Lead Officer Forrest. Did you? I can’t believe we were duped. Ah, but for a good cause, a very good cause. We’re with the One True Queen now!”

  Halves gives him a smirk, which is about as close to a smile as he can get.

  Cope, nearly giggling with excitement, plops down on the floor next to him. He wears just a loose t-shirt, white underwear, and big floppy white socks dirtied on their pads, the left one with a hole in it. “What a curious coincidence, isn’t it? To be on a mission to restore a proper King to the throne of Atlas, only to be intersected by a band of folk serving the truly proper Queen of Atlas. And Forrest was in on it? I couldn’t tell. Could you tell? She said she handpicked me. Did she handpick you? What is our purpose here? Oh, this is so exciting!”

  Halvesand gives him a lazy thumbs-up.

  Cope smiles and hugs his knees to his chest. “It’s like being back in Guardian school all over again. I miss it. I think training to become a Guardian is so much more fun than actually being one. Don’t you ever miss the dormitory days? The bonding … the camaraderie … the friendships and secret relationships … the sweat and the training and the studying into the late night hours over candlelight? Oh, speaking of, I’ve already lost my metal lantern.” Cope sighs. “I know I must’ve misplaced it last night when I took my bath, but can’t think of where I last put it. The baths are so well-lit, you don’t really need …” He scrunches up his face at Halves. “I’m sorry. I’m talking too much. It’s just … well, you can’t talk, and I can’t find where Bee is, my partner. You know we’re partners, right?” He gives Halves’ leg a light smack from the floor. “You and I would have made great partners, I think.”