Beyond Oblivion

by Daryl Banner

  Edrick collapses onto a barstool, his eyes opening. “Ooh, this … this isn’t good, guys. Pour us drinks, Nickel or Locke. We’ll need ‘em. Pull up a chair, Athan. I’ve got some shitty news.”

  Athan’s heart sinks. He doesn’t pull up a chair. “Tell me.”

  “Arrow shot Pratganth with a gun,” Edrick starts, “and—”

  “Wait, what??”

  “Let me finish, Lifted boy. Arrow shot Pratty with a gun. Pratty is alive and next-door at the Penlings’ being treated. Ivy and Arrow … aren’t here, and I don’t know where they are. I think someone said they ran away, but it didn’t make sense, what they said.”

  “Ran away?” blurts Locke. “Why Ivy, too?” asks Nickel on top of his question, and then: “I didn’t know guns still exist.” Edrick rolls his eyes and cries out, “Of course they exist, you dummy.”

  Through all their banter, Athan’s eyes wander to the glass back doors, and then it hits him. “The charm …”

  The others shut their bickering up at once, then turn toward the back door, too, staring at the giant metal disc thing that’s sat there for ages, silent and stark.

  “Wait a second.” Locke peers back at them. “You’re meaning to tell me—?”

  “That Athan here thinks Arrow grabbed Ivy and teleported up to the Lifted City with her?” finishes Edrick. “Aye, seems so.”

  “Seems so?” Locke stares at the backyard. “Wow. That’s …” He can’t seem to form a sentence, sputtering in shock.

  “Very likely.” Edrick squints, perking an ear. “Seems like, from a heated argument I’m hearing a few houses down between a woman and her dumb husband—Is that Auna?—that a couple down the street have left the ninth for a cousin’s house who lives in the tenth. Others are thinking of leaving, too. Shit, this is bad. Oh, yeah, just heard it, someone mentioned Arrow zipping out of here on the charm. Yeah, you were right, Athan. If only I’d waited a minute longer to hear it …”

  Athan doesn’t care if he’s right; he suddenly can’t hear another word. He moves to the couch in the living room and drops right onto it, keeping a big pile of smelly laundry company. It’s on that couch that he pulls his head between his knees and stares at the carpet, out of words. Why would Arrow do something like this? None of it makes sense to Athan. It doesn’t sound like Arrow at all. He managed this ward. He kept the peace. Everyone respects him.

  Edrick is still reporting to the other two at the kitchen counter. “Prat apparently uncovered some secret plot of Arrow’s to murder Ivy with the gun, because Ivy’s family did something to Arrow’s family. Prat confronted him on the roof, then bang, he falls off …”

  Athan slaps his hands over his ears, finished with it all. But even then, he can still hear the muffled noise of Edrick talking to Nickel and Locke, reporting everything he can hear—from which house or street, he doubts even Edrick himself knows. No matter how firmly he presses his palms to his ears, he can still hear it all.

  He almost never prays. Yet in this moment, he catches himself having the thought: Sisters help us all.

  When night falls, Athan and the others have decided to brave visiting the Penlings to get the story directly. Auleen and Iranda go over it in painstaking detail—three times—before deciding to offer a quick meal to the weary quartet, who hadn’t eaten a thing for hours. Some vegetables are thrown into a pot with some broth. As everyone waits for the soup to cook, the Penlings are told about the good news with the Greens, and Athan lingers by the front window dwelling on the bad. He kneels on the couch facing the wrong way, arms propped up on the back as he stares outside at the street and that one streetlamp that won’t stop buzzing and sputtering.

  Nickel comes up and kneels on the couch similarly, elbows up on the back of it. He stares out the front window with Athan awhile before softly muttering, “I’m sorry.”

  Athan shrugs. “Things happen. Sometimes, you can’t explain why. I thought I knew Arrow.”

  “I meant about how I’ve been acting.”

  “Oh.” Athan glances his way. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

  “I should be more sensitive. I just … I get very emotional. I tend to react first, then stew over it for days before I realize I’m wrong.”

  Athan lets out a short chuckle. “It’s fine, Nickel. Really.”

  A moment passes as the two of them stare out the window. He finds himself being appreciative for once of Nickel’s company. He’s a bit of a dramatic kid sometimes, but they’ve all been through a lot, and Athan supposes he can afford him some slack. He means well …

  “I want to kiss you, Athan Broadmore.”

  To that, Athan can only laugh. He turns his head and starts to say, “I’m sorry, Nickel, I’m just—” but finds the boy’s lips crashed into his instead, interrupting his words.

  The kiss doesn’t last long.

  Athan pulls away. “The fuck!”

  “I-I’m sorry.” Then the boy stammers, “I mean, I’m not sorry.”

  “I don’t care if you’re sorry or not.” Athan pushes himself off the couch at once. “I didn’t give you permission to kiss me.”

  The words cut the orange-haired boy like a knife. “I said sorry!”

  “I don’t care!”

  Nickel is on his feet, his hurt turning to anger at once. “Get over him, Athan! He’s gone. He’s gone and he’s never coming back and I’m right here.”

  Athan wipes his mouth with the back of a wrist, as if that would undo what this boy just did. He feels a mixture of pain and disgust. No lips will ever taste right again. No breath will ever smell right again. No arms will ever feel warm again.

  “Just let it happen,” the boy demands. “Just let me—”

  Athan turns away and heads for the door, chased away by the aroma of the Penlings’ soup that he won’t taste a bit of. He’s lost all his appetite anyway. Stumbling across the dark lawn, he shoves his way into the even-darker Lesser house, now completely empty, and trudges up the narrow stair. When he pushes into his room—into Anwick’s room—he lowers himself to the floor, kneeling, and he breathes deeply.

  Suddenly, he takes on the spirit of Wick’s mother. He clasps his hands and presses them to his chest. “Three Sister,” he says quietly in the dark in front of that window. “I’ve never wished for anything. But please … please … give me the Legacy of sleep so that I may join my lover in a dream. A real dream.” He fights tears. “Please, Three Sister, give me a dream, and I pray I’ll never wake up from it … I pray, I pray, I pray never to wake up from it.”

  0326 Tide

  The others invite Tide to join them for a crispy-meat dinner in the main square, which they have a bit later than he’s used to, what with Dog (or is it Dag now?) usually fixing him a hearty stew the moment he comes home, like clockwork.

  “I’m really not sure how I feel about this secret meeting you and Chole had without our knowledge,” admits Mira as she cracks open a loaf of bread, the steam billowing out. Her boobs spill halfway out of a tight black top today, with matching grey pants that look glued to every inch of her curvy hips. Not that Tide’s noticed. “Want a big hunk of bread or a small one?”

  “Neither,” grunts Tide, content with his two thick legs of meat.

  “So … is there a reason Chole brought only you?” she asks.

  “Aye, he’s got a reason,” grunts Ranklin who, despite his big and brutish look, eats his meat delicately with two hands, pinkies pointed out like a Lifted Lady. “It’s ‘cause of his wind. He’s Chole’s Weapon.”

  Mira and Jonan, sitting side-by-side like a pair of lifelong fancy friends, give smirks and tiny nods to each other.

  Tide glares over his leg of meat. “I’m more than just my wind, and I ain’t anybody’s fucking Weapon.”

  “If you have a strong enough Legacy, and you’re under a King or Queen’s power, then yeah, you’re a fucking Weapon,” spits back Ranklin, then goes for another dainty bite.

  Jonan’s word of agreement is a sneeze and an apology.

/>   “Hey, don’t get all bent, Tide,” coos Mira in a singsong tone. “He is paying you a compliment, really. You’ve the strongest Legacy out of any of us. Being a Weapon isn’t so awful.”

  Tide snorts and ignores her. Weapons are prisoners. Weapons are property. I’m neither of those things, and I’ll have them know it one way or another.

  Mira reaches over the table for the butter, then starts to spread some over her bread. She lifts her pretty eyes to Tide, framed by her unnaturally cherry-red hair. “So why don’t you give us a taste of your special adventure? What was Cloud Tower like?”

  Ranklin and Jonan also turn to face him expectantly, and it is now that their eyes turn curious and attentive.

  Tide regards each of them with an annoyed glance at first. When he realizes he truly has their attention—and their interest—he finds his mood changing, relaxing. He glances down at his meat with a pout. “It’s …” He shrugs. “It’s … shorter than I expected.”

  Mira cracks a smile. “Shorter? Really? That’s what you have to say about the pinnacle of the Last City of Atlas?”

  “Yeah.” Tide shrugs again. “It was short.”

  Jonan chuckles at that, then sneezes, then chuckles some more.

  “We’re not even in the damn Ferns!” growls Ranklin when part of Jonan’s sneeze ends up on his arm.

  “The flower tent nearby.” Jonan sneezes again. “Fucking flowers are everywhere in this ward. Didn’t sneeze once in the third.”

  “What was the Queen like?” asks Mira, steering them back on topic. “Miss Slum Queen Number Two?”

  Tide bites off a big hunk of meat, then speaks as he chews. “She was a boring, nothing, dull girl.” He chews some more. “If I wasn’t being held back by the Plant King, I could’ve summoned a hurricane in that throne room and flung everyone out its glass windows.”

  “Tide, the Hurricane King,” sings Mira. She taps his leg under the table with her foot, causing him to furrow his brow unsurely at her. “Chole’s got a soft spot for you, he does.”

  “Aye,” grunts Ranklin. “I’d bet he’s a boy of other boys.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” says Mira. “But I’d say he loves him.”

  Jonan perks up his head with a mouthful of bread. “Loves him?”

  “Yes. Chole has love for him. For Tide.” Mira tilts her head and taps Tide’s leg again under the table, making him flinch this time in annoyance. “You’ve got a fistful of power in that little unassuming friendship of yours. A fistful of trust, too.”

  Tide glares at her suspiciously. Did she overhear their exchange? Did she overhear when I said I loved him? He wishes he hadn’t gotten so emotional that day, gushing and spilling out his appreciation for the King’s generosity like a big, weak idiot.

  “Why are you so obsessed with it?” Tide spits out. “I respect the King. I owe him my life.”

  “And you love him.” She shrugs. “Perhaps not like a lover. Two friends can love one another, too. And you love him. I sense it.”

  Tide nearly growls, then mentally reaches for the first thing he can. “Chole thinks I pushed him too much to action. My impatience made him form that plan to go into the sky.” He swallows his bite with a grunt. “He thinks I’m infecting him with ideas.”

  “So keep infecting him.” Mira’s foot drags up the base of his leg, rubbing, teasing. He pulls away. “Infect him ‘til he’s all yours.”

  “Shut up,” Tide retorts through his next mouthful.

  “When Chole returns from the Greens,” she finishes, “he’ll have an alliance secured that the Queen of the Abandon cannot ignore. We will have more than half of Atlas behind us, and that Queen will be forced to respect us.” By now, she even has Ranklin and Jonan’s full attention. The woman leans across the table, bringing her face right up to Tide’s, causing him to stop chewing at once. “Do you realize the power you’ve got in those fat, stupid hands of yours?”

  Tide just stares at her, meat hanging on his lip, grease from his leg of meat dripping through his fingers, mouth full but not chewing.

  “So yes,” she concludes. “Infect him. With love, with your ideas, with whatever you got. You’ll have Chole in your pocket, and then you’ll have Atlas in your pocket, and through you, all of us will get to see the top of that short, unimpressive tower.” She tears off another hunk of bread, then nods at him. “Weapons are the most important pieces in this great game, Tide. Maybe even more important than Marshals.” She pops a bite into her mouth. “Never forget that.” Then as she chews, she shoots him a wink.

  It’s something Tide doesn’t forget as he goes home an hour later after the sun is down and most of the streets are cleared. The faint glows left on his upper arms and back light the dark, narrow streets between the buildings. And for some reason, likely the compliments and ego-feeding courtesy of Mira, he feels light in his steps. He even catches himself smiling once or twice, his glow seeming to flash just a bit brighter as he does so. Chole has love for me. He almost mocks the very words. The bastard loves me even when he’s pissed at me.

  Perhaps Mira just gave him the greatest gift of all. Perhaps all he needs to do is let Chole be the one to shake hands and play nice with everyone; Tide will be the one who pushes, the one who infects.

  Yes, I will be his Weapon.

  When he opens the door and pushes his way inside the warm house filled with the aroma of spicy orange root soup, he finds Dag standing awkwardly in the center of the room with an ugly woman behind him clutching his head like a massage.

  Then Tide realizes who she is.

  He flinches away, his back slamming against the door, and then he stares at her unblinkingly.

  “Hi there, cunt,” sneers the ugly woman named Gin.

  Her hands are not clutching the sides of Dag’s face; they are fused to the sides of his face, her skin melting seamlessly into either of his cheeks and upper jaw, half-covering his ears.

  Tide’s eyes meet Dag’s. Strangely, his eyes look unafraid, almost relieved at the sight of Tide. “Hello,” Dag greets him in a small voice.

  “You don’t look happy to see me,” Gin notes. When her hands flinch, Dag’s head moves with them. “Pissing your pants yet?”

  “L-Let … L-L-Let g-go of … of …” Tide can’t even think of the boy’s name suddenly.

  Gin scoffs at him. “What a pathetic cunt you are. All big and full of muscles and fat. You think strength comes from the body? Real strength lives in the cunning. And I am plenty cunning.” She gives a nod at the side door. “We’re going out, all of us, for a little trip.”

  “Trip?”

  “Yes, a trip.” She smirks superiorly. “We’re going back home, Tide. Back home where you belong.”

  That cold vacuum he thought he’d felt the last of opens back up in his chest, swallowing everything. He shrinks against the door, his eyes locked on the grotesque image of those hands melted into the sides of Dag’s face. His nightmare is alive before his eyes.

  “It’s okay,” Dag says suddenly. “I don’t mind, really. As long as I’m with you, I’m happy.”

  He has no fear in his stupid little voice.

  He is too dumb to know that his life will be over the moment they reach the Abandon. That clueless look on his face will be frozen upon it forever when he’s turned into pale, bloodless marble.

  What a stupid, mindless, happy idiot.

  “Let’s go,” orders Gin. “I’m about six months overdue to report back to the Queen that I’ve ended the Slum King’s life. And since I failed to do that, I will bring her back a thing twice as good: You. And then my sister will be freed.”

  “She’ll n-never be freed,” Tide growls. “You know that. I know that. You could’ve easily been part of the winning side. You …” He feels drops of sweat tracing their cool fingertips down his back. “You only have yourself to blame, Gin.”

  “Oh, so I guess you don’t mind if I rip your friend’s head in half,” she murmurs flippantly. “It’s easy as fuck with my Legacy. It’s l
ike pulling apart a loaf of bread.”

  Tide’s stomach turns at the analogy. Was she watching me eat?

  “So seeing as I am the one in control here, I’ll make this whole thing very simple. It’ll be so simple, even a dumb block of meat like you can understand.” Only Gin’s voice seems to smile; her face is flat and ugly as a bruised tomato with hair. “Come with me right now back to the Abandon, and I will release your boy here. Don’t, and I’ll pull apart his face.”

  Weapons are the most important piece in this great game.

  “I got an easier idea,” Tide states, pushing himself away from the door.

  “Aye, I like mine more,” she spits back without hearing his.

  But then Tide moves toward her, one step at a time. And yes, every step is also an effort. He trembles in fear, and prays it does not show. “Take your gross hands off his face,” Tide suggests, “and put a hand on me instead. Then I’ll go with you, just us.”

  Gin narrows her eyes challengingly. She purses her lips.

  “Just us,” Tide repeats, standing before them. He clenches his jaw so tightly between his words, there are muscles in his neck that tremble, muscles he didn’t even know he had. “Fuse yourself to me. Let this loser go so the idiot Slum King has no reason to pursue us.”

  Dag’s big dumb eyes meets Tide’s. The boy shows nothing on his face. Tide wonders for a second if that’s because Gin’s fused hands are stealing his ability to express anything at all. His smile would be squished between two deformed rows of flesh that are her clasping, melted fingers.

  “Go ahead.” Tide gestures at himself. “You’ll need to let him go to put a hand on me. Do it. Let’s get this over with and say hello to that stupid statue-loving pale woman in the twelfth.”

  Gin’s glare is white hot fire upon him. Then, quicker than Tide was anticipating, her left hand slips right off of Dag’s face.

  When she grips the meat of Tide’s upper arm, he notices at once the deep, tight, restrictive feeling of her hand becoming a part of him. It’s instant, the near loss of control Tide experiences, like he cannot quite shake his shoulder the way he could a second ago, the way his arm feels robbed of freedom, pulled as potently by her hand as it is by his own muscle. He wonders, with a tiny prickle of dread, exactly how deep into his body her Legacy reaches.