Outlier: Rebellion

by Daryl Banner

  “You okay?” asks Athan.

  “Of course,” he lies, feeling the pangs of a headache knocking at the door of his skull.

  Athan pulls him around. Wick is now forced to stare at him, the effect like an anchor in a sea of madness. “Look here,” those beautiful lips tell him. “There you are.” Athan smiles and the whole world crushes away … noise and chatter and volume.

  “But—But Victra might see you. She might—”

  “So let her. And let her see this, too.” Athan presses his face into Wick’s. Now it doesn’t matter if Victra peers through his eyes because all she’d see is blissful black, as they’re closed for this brief island of Athan’s peace.

  When they pull apart, Wick is smiling. Athan too. “Just us here, see?” The blue has set in his hair, but blonde still dominates, creating swirls of greenish-blue among the spikes of yellow. Even in its slapdash mess—or perhaps because of it—Athan looks absurdly sexy. “Be the calm they need, Wick. The others are depending on you, aren’t they? And so am I.”

  For having such a firm, steady voice, he sounds so sweetly innocent, like no frights of the world dare taint it. Wick breathes in slowly, breathes out, his eyes not for a second leaving Athan’s. Let her see. “I could’ve used a dose of you at the square when the Garden fell. Where were you then?” But he didn’t think the question through, as Athan only grins and answers, “I was there. And I believe it was you who found me.”

  “Yet I still can’t figure out who saved who that day.”

  The earpiece squawks, chirps, and the lights in the arena begin to slowly dim. It’s beginning. Wick pulls to the nearest exit, pushes a finger into his ear and says, “I think I’m at the south … I think I’m in place, but didn’t get a visual on—”

  “I’m here,” Rone’s voice answers, and the sound of it is a great and unexpected comfort to Wick. “We’re in place, all of us. Just sit back, my man. We have an entire show to watch before the real show begins.”

  Athan is pressed against him, his hand on the Sanctum boy’s firm thigh, and Wick realizes there’s quite literally nowhere else he’d rather be. He fights a very random and ill-timed desire to make a grab at Athan, his hands speaking sweet temptations to him. Athan’s breath pushes in and out at Wick’s ear, and it gives him cause to smile, relax, and feel his heart race all at the same time. Maybe you’re both good and bad for me, he wonders, heart still fluttering. You calm me as much as you excite me.

  The Weapon Show begins unceremoniously with a presentation of long blades and short blades and how different metals behave in combat. This is then played out with a combat demonstration between two skilled men. The audience is a strange mixture of happy and awful. Some drunk women in the front make fun of nearly everything presented, hushed by surrounding folk, only to then be joined by raucous men at the side, jeering and laughing despite the presenters’ confidence or weapon. These demos serve many a purpose: for the forgers of the new weapons, they become a giant advertisement to Guardian and Sanctum. They are also something of an audition for men and women who fight, demonstrating the use and flexibility of their weapons. Some showings are more impressive than others, but most of them are boring. The real sport is in seeing if any of the combatants might slip and hurt one another. It happens.

  The most exciting presentations are the inventions. Wick is fascinated with some of the strange weaponry and gadgets that have been made to suit certain purposes. One woman shows a long staff made of smooth chrome, sure to appeal to Sanctum folk, but when it’s unsheathed and thrust in a certain direction, sharp points emerge and what once was a simple rod of metal now becomes a gadget of several functions: a blood-letting tourniquet of knives, a ranged sword, a pickaxe … There’s even a small point emerging two-thirds up its length that looks like a toothpick. “See here,” she exclaims, “as I let loose last night’s beef from my teeth.” The crowd laughs; every good presentation has its humors. Even the drunk women in the front laugh, and the wild men at the side.

  “Stay steady,” says Rone from the earpiece. “Stay steady, kids. We’ve one more presenter before the final, and then we’ll make it rain.” Victra answers with a mumble and Juston from the other exit clears the call. Wick, still content to have half his body pressed against Athan, grits his teeth and awaits the cue.

  “How do they detonate?” whispers Athan.

  Wick shakes his head. “I don’t know. They haven’t explained. Only that it will happen when—”

  “Okay, okay, got it.” Athan squeezes against Wick’s arm, sending a jolt of exhilaration up his back, hairs standing on end.

  The next presenter comes out. His hair is pitch black and even from this far distance he can be seen wearing a wily smile. He seems confident, dressed in flat greys and a black band on his arm, floppy boots with laces untied and dragging. He takes center, his voice impressively audible. “My name is Dran. What I have to show all you fine fools is the world’s first knife. Or, rather, what the world’s first knife could have been.” He produces a blade like any other, its sharp the length of a hand. “It’s a good sharp, isn’t it? A fine sharp, a knife that can hit an eye like any other.” Demonstratively he aims, raises arm, then flings the thing, fast as lightning. It strikes into a wooden post. “Such a nuisance, once a knife’s thrown that it no longer belongs to you. Or does it?” The presenter raises his arm, a true showman, and the knife flips from the post as though beckoned by some unseen force, returning at once to Dran’s hand. “A retractable sharp!”

  The audience gives a mix of applause, hoots, yelps and laughter. Wick grins, unable to help being impressed just as well. The one named Dran gives a good show; already, spectators in the front demand another demo of it, whether by awe or by skepticism. Sometimes, people make false showings, the way a magician feigns and makes fools of his audience, and they want to see more for purposes of validation … to catch the trick behind it.

  “Another, you ask?” Dran grins, curling his lips in that guileful sort of way. He raises the knife again. “Let’s take aim at another thing, if you’re thinking that wooden post is twisted by some Legacy of mine or another’s. Let’s have at … hmm … that spot, right there.” He points a finger, indicating the target.

  “NO,” Rone’s voice belts from the earpiece, causing Wick to jerk, surprised. “No, no, no, no, no—”

  “What is it?” Wick’s forgotten to press the bit, Rone’s voice still going on and on. He pokes a finger into his ear and repeats, “Rone, what is it?”

  “Victra, stop him, or … or no, no. Yellow—Yellow, are you connected? You’re closer, aren’t you? Yellow …”

  There’s a mess of voices and noise in the charm, so distracting and loud that Wick has to pull half the thing out of his ear, wincing. “What the hell is wrong?” he asks Athan rhetorically. “They’re going crazy!”

  He turns back to the stage just in time to witness Dran let loose the knife—it shimmers—then lands in a pillar of the building, just above one of the spotlights. “Missed!” Dran exclaims with a laugh and, jerking his arm, retracts the knife back to his hand. “Should I try again? Can I not finish this presentation without a perfect hit to that innocent, did-nothing-to-harm-another-soul-in-its-life spot?”

  “HE CAN’T HIT IT,” the earpiece buzzes, and Wick thrusts it back into his ear to respond, but Rone is frantic. “Not yet! They’ll think he’s done it!—all of it! Yellow, Yellow, Yellow, you have to call them on, you have to get the next presenter out. Cut this guy off, get him off the fucking stage—”

  Wick squints at the spotlights, uncomprehending, wondering what the hell warrants all their panic. He sees nothing peculiar about the thing, hanging fifty feet in the air, one of about seven that point down at the stage. What would it matter if a knife struck into it? The only reason Wick could fathom would be—Oh no …

  They put the graffiti bombs in the spotlights.

  “Ready?” calls out Dran, spreading his hands. He lets go the knife … and it lands just below the spotligh
t. It now casts a menacing shadow across the stage. “Curses! Third time’s the charm, maybe?” He pulls his arm, the knife returning once more. The audience cheers and jeers.

  “Wick??”

  Wick looks up, startled. Has my father found me?? No, it wasn’t his voice, and dad calls him by full name. It wasn’t the charm in his ear either, nor was it Athan. He searches for the voice, almost annoyed.

  “To the left, dimwit.”

  To the left his eyes go—then to another left, where he finds the regrettable source. Wick goes pale, his gaze landing on the thick rump of muscled shoulder that bears a head made uglier by an expression that looks something between catching a whiff of a gross thing and suffering constipation. “Tide?”

  “Yeah, that’d be me, and this is my place. This ain’t yours.” His eyes narrow, suspicious suddenly. “What the hell you doing here, anyway?”

  “Come to see the show,” Wick answers too quickly, his eyes still on the stage. Dran’s raised the knife, his face clenched in concentration. Miss again. Pull him off the stage. Miss! Rone squawks again in his ear, he’s calling for Yellow, Yellow’s calling for Juston, Juston’s making a yell back at Rone. Even the unexpected Tide is still talking, japing, poking. The world is a mess of voices and shouting orders in only one ear.

  Dran lets fly the knife.

  It scores.

  I was right, Wick realizes with a sick terror. The blue sprays a net of lines and circles of paint, bursting from the top of the spotlight—and it’s caused a chain reaction. All the graffiti bombs, one for each spotlight, scribble in a matter of seconds a design in blue across the domed roof of the arena. It happens so unexpectedly and so fast that the whole of the audience is struck silent. Even the drunks, even the wild men.

  What have we done?

  Dran is looking up, confused. The blue on the ceiling forms the design of water droplets, coils of blue that form the words: THE LIFTED CITY WILL FALL. Another spray of blue words beneath those: WE ARE THE REAL WEAPON. And under that, within a water droplet of its own, there is one more line of blue: LET IT RAIN.

  All the breath of the world holds. There is no stirring of clothes, no shouts, not even whispers. One would think the people are admiring the artwork, reading every word. Perhaps they are.

  In the next instant, a furious purple light cuts across the stage, striking Dran in the neck, and he’s on the floor screaming. Guardian have raided the stage to arrest him.

  Then the world shatters into screams and madness and purple light. Guardian have cut through the crowd with short grey cannons in their grasps—They have neons! Wick’s never seen them before, the glow guns, but heard all the nightmares. There’s no time for fear, as people are already trampling one another to escape. Lucky for Wick, he’s already so close to the exit that with a mere push and shove, he’s made it out with Athan still clinging to him—though considerably less calm.

  Neon pink and purple of glow gun ammunition fill the air. Wick realizes Tide is still at his side, keeping up despite obstacles of abandoned shoes, dropped brochures and purses and bags, even people … He’s got good footing for a juggernaut. It’s Athan he’s more worried about, their arms slippery. I found you in madness, I can’t lose you in it too. He tries to imagine them on the rooftops of buildings, racing to every edge, taking leaps of faith … We’re only leaping.

  There’s a bright purple flash, and then: “FUCK!” screams Tide, but Wick can’t pay attention just yet, for a score of Guardian are rushing the crowds from the east as well. “There’s nowhere to go!” Tide screams helplessly.

  “There’s always somewhere to go,” answers Wick, cutting to the right and ducking, narrowly escaping the path of a bright pink laser. He grips Athan, not caring if he’s putting a hurt on his arm, and Athan doesn’t seem to care either, following without question. It’s like they share the same mind, cutting through the right people and avoiding the same ones.

  Wick spots him at the corner, waving frantically. Without sharing his plan, he keeps Athan gripped to him and races across the road to join Rone and Victra.

  “You’re a dead man,” says Victra, and not to Wick. Athan can’t seem to respond, so Victra does for him: “Thought it cute to explore the city, Sanctum boy? How cute does our city look now?”

  “This isn’t the time!” Wick cuts in. “Get the first train, and—”

  “Safety first,” sings Rone, pointing ahead. “Trying to shove into a train is suicide. Guardian will be anticipating that, and they are not discriminating guilty from innocent tonight—They’re shooting anything that moves, the idiots they are.”

  “They’ve shot me!” screams Tide, and Wick gives a roll of his eye; he didn’t realize Tide had kept up. “I didn’t do anything! Shot me in the fucking back!”

  “What about Juston?” Wick cuts in. “And Yellow?” He puts a finger into his ear to find out himself, then realizes the earpiece must’ve come loose and fallen out.

  “They’re out, but I don’t know where. They have better sense than to pour into the trains. I’ve a better plan anyway.” Rone waves a hand, beckoning them forward.

  The five of them run down a road, already crowded with fleeing men and women—Is this all I have to look forward to? A series of events where I run for my life? Rone abruptly curves into an alley, leading them up a concrete stair that opens to a blunt brick bridge that juts over a railway. Wick looks to the side, sees the tufts of demon grey piping out the top of an approaching train.

  Rone’s come to a stop, bringing himself to the edge and leaning over as if to scope. The train passes under them in a rush of wind and noise and gagging smoke. The electric sizzle can be heard of train grinding steel as it moves.

  Rone twists his head, his eyes finding Wick. “You ready?”

  “Ready for what?”

  “Only fools escape into a train,” quips Rone. “Wiser folk escape atop them.” Then he phases through the railing, lands onto the roof of the train below and goes.

  “FUCK!” screams Tide, shaking and quivering and glowing like a fat purple star. “I’m not jumping!”

  “Live or die,” sings Victra, makes a hop, gone.

  Wick turns his eyes to the Sanctum boy still glued to his side. His bright blue eyes flash. Is it still excitement in them, or is this what your fear looks like? “Athan, we have to jump. This time, no building’s gonna catch us.”

  “A train is something of a building,” Athan reasons, his voice sounding remarkably calm despite the chaos.

  “We gotta jump now. A train’s only so long and this one’s nearly—”

  In a mad holler, Tide leaps off the bridge, his huge arms flailing, legs kicking, and he lands like a boulder, denting the roof—but making it, now carried away, away, away. Even he jumped. Why am I so afraid?

  “Together,” Athan says. “Maybe another dumb idea, but I thought—”

  Guardian have made it to the bridge. One of them raises a gun, aiming, malice in his eyes. “JUMP!” Wick screams, shoving the two of them off the bridge just as a bright purple fury whizzes by, grazing his arm.

  The world flips, flips, and then metal slaps Wick in the face. He spreads his legs to gain purchase, but feels himself slipping. He tries to grab, reaching, pulling, gripping anything in sight, but he’s sliding off the end. “Help! HELP!” He stretches and holds, feeling as slippery as the wind pushing past his face. We’ve landed on the last car, he realizes, slipping off the back. I’m going to fall. This is when Anwick Lesser dies.

  Firm hands grab him. The world thrusts sickeningly to the left, to the right, and then he’s atop the roof of the train, heaving, nearly to tears and staring into the face of Athan Broadmore, boy from the sky.

  “I wouldn’t dare let you go,” whispers Athan, and Wick hears him perfectly even through the madness of wind racing by his ears. “You saved mine, I save yours.”

  Wick takes five long breaths before he’s able to find his wit: “Haven’t you already saved mine before?”

  “Saving a lif
e isn’t just pulling a friend from the fire,” he explains, the daredevil playing in his wet, excited eyes. “It’s thereafter keeping him from the fire. Saving a life means saving it over and over.”

  Wick slowly slips an arm over Athan’s back, the both of them hugging the roof of the train … and each other. He listens as the commotion behind grows smaller and smaller, quieter and quieter until all that exists is wind and smoke and Athan’s beautiful eyes. Their faces drawn close, the train carries them away …

  But to where?

  0036 Link

  A purple light zips past his face, nearly taking off his nose and left eyebrow in its furious path.

  He tears through the turmoil and the chaos. He is no Shye unseen tonight; he is afraid, his hands shake so much he can’t coordinate them properly to deflect people he pushes past. Someone’s elbow finds his face and he’s clutching his eye now, half-blind, and the world’s blurry as he runs, runs … to where, his feet barely know.

  Palms sweaty, he’s trying to pull off the black band, pry and twist and pull it off his arm—stupid fucking band—and he’s delirious. Another purple light zips by, skirts just over his head and hits a tall boy in the face, tumbling him like a tree. Other unfriendly lights are flying overhead, lights shot from Guardian guns. Link idly wonders if any of these lights belong to Halves … belong to Aleks.

  Then the light zips by, bites him in the leg.

  Link plummets to the ground, yelping out so loud his voice breaks—but no person could possibly hear him in the cacophony that swirls around like a storm of bullets and lightning.

  The second he’s righted himself, he grabs his leg, investigates it to find he’s been hit by a glow gun. A fucking glow gun! Now the panic truly sets in. Nothing known outside Sanctum can remove the furious glow of those guns once they’ve struck human skin. He’s been marked—marked!—and all he can do is scramble back to his feet, his left calf glowing like a train light, and run. Please, he begs, just please let me get home before dad does.