Beyond Oblivion

by Daryl Banner

  “He is fine. He will need his time, as I did. Really, you should—”

  “If I hear why I should be lying in a bed once more, Aleksand, I’m going to fire a neon at your cock.”

  “Ennebal,” he scolds her.

  Perhaps it’s his tone. Perhaps it’s the possessive way in which he speaks to her. Perhaps it’s just the fact that Aleksand exists and is who he is. But that one word strikes the match in Halvesand’s heart.

  Halves turns about, marches up to his brother, and heatedly throws two gestures at him—Now you care? Aleks, perhaps too startled by Halves’ sudden confrontation, doesn’t seem to catch the words. Halves repeats himself slowly, each gesture punctuated with a shake of his hands.

  Aleks’s eyes contract. “I … Of course I care. What do you mean? I’ve always cared.”

  Fool idiot. Fucking fool idiot. Halves swipes the com device right off of Aleks’s utility belt, flips it open to the telescreen, and types out a message so furiously, his thumbs hurt by the end of it. Then he turns it over and shows Aleks the screen: ‘You thought the worst of Anwick when I arrested him. You said he was nothing but trouble. Now you care? Now that he’s dead?’

  After reading the message, Aleks’s eyes turn from sympathetic to indignant. “How could you imply that about me? You even said he was troubled, he and Link, both!”

  Grinding his teeth, Halves deletes the message and types another: ‘You’re forcing words in my mouth. You thought father was guilty, too. You think the worst of anyone who isn’t you.’

  Aleks reads it. His anger doubles. “I’ve lost them, too. All.”

  ‘And Link?’ Halvesand types next, frustrated with the delay of his typing between their exchanges. ‘Will you only care when his REAL body turns up in an identifier room someday?’

  Aleks closes his eyes, then takes a deep, long, annoying breath before he responds. “Halvesand. You are … and have always been … too emotional. It’s why you take your medicines for your stomach. Or used to. I’ve lost two brothers, too. I forgive you already for your angry words, but now we need to grieve together.”

  Says the person who called Wick a troubled boy who got what he deserved when Halves arrested him in Pylon #105 in the sixth.

  Says the person who scoffed when he heard that their father had been taken to the Keep, then passively dissociated from him by lying to all his buddies about how he was never close with his father.

  Says the person who preached about following Guardian rules of no fraternization, then went and fucked Halvesand’s girlfriend.

  ‘You’ve a choice to make,’ their father said to little Halves, long ago after they’d had a fight. ‘You love your brother or you wish him dead. Those are your only choices. Make an answer, Halves.’

  Two Answers.

  Halves grabs his brother by the front of his shirt and slams him against the nearest wall so hard, Aleks lets out a bark of pain.

  Then Halves bares his teeth, and for the first time in months, he lets out a word from the depths of his unused throat. “YOU.”

  Aleks’s big brown eyes flap open wide as he stares into Halves’, bewildered by the sound of his voice. Just that one word is like gravel and rusted chips of metal, worse than any word uttered by the late King Greymyn Netheris.

  “Halves,” breathes Aleks. “I’m not the enemy. Let go. Let go of your brother.”

  Brother. What an interesting term of endearment. And to think of all that his brother has gotten and lost Halvesand over the years. Slummers & Sky Guards and a few locks of hair. Races to school and back home in the rain. Competitions with girls, with friends, with school evaluations. Training for Guardian. Always winning, always ensuring he’s ahead, always taking what he wants.

  With his body the way it is, Halves will never have the chance to father another child again. Aleks has taken that last chance from him. For all he knows, his very sperm is now made of poison; he can only father the dead.

  “I’ve told you time and again. Your anger will have the best of you.” Aleks sighs. “I’m angry, too. I lost the same brothers as you.”

  Which ones is he referring to? Link, who is lost to the streets or truly dead, as their mother made the Guardian of the sixth believe? Anwick, who was executed by the Mad King? Lionis, too?

  Or perhaps he refers to Halvesand himself, who died the day his neck was slit by an angry woman on a mission?

  Another word climbs out of Halves’ bloody throat. “YOU …”

  A fleck of blood lands on Aleksand’s chin, unnoticed. “Calm, Halves,” he says, his hard, superior eyes betraying his gentle words. “Your actions are upsetting Ennebal and the baby.”

  Why Aleksand chooses those precise words to say, Halves may never know. But it’s the last thing he hears before his fingers curl, his fist draws back, and his knuckles bury themselves into a cheek.

  Aleks blinks twice, then halfway drops to the ground, his hands grappling and searching for Halves through the stars before his eyes.

  Ennebal lets out a bark of protest, but Halves pays it no mind. He lunges for his brother again. With a fistful of his shirt, Halves pulls Aleks’s face into position again, draws his fist back, and lands it into him once more. His knuckles sting.

  “STOP IT!” shouts Ennebal, like a commander giving an order.

  But this seems to be the one thing Halves refuses to stop. Each punch is so fucking satisfying, Halvesand grows addicted to the thrill and the fury. Aleks, so stunned by the force of Halves’ blows, does next to nothing to defend himself. He flings his hands up, confused, the very first hit having blinded him, as is evidenced by his rapid blinking. Halves is atop his brother, furious, teeth bared and bloody spit hissing from between his tight lips as he sucks in air, reels his fist back, and throws it again into his brother’s face.

  Are these swings quick enough for you? he’d ask him, mocking all the unasked-for coaching during his training sessions. Am I turning my torso quick enough, you arrogant fucker?

  He sees Aleks and Ennebal sharing a bed, fucking until the sun rises. He sees Aleksand’s bare ass as it pumps a baby into her.

  Halves throws another punch.

  He sees Ennebal’s legs spread. He sees her out of breath, drunk with lust, lips parted.

  Another punch, square in the cheek.

  He sees them smiling by a window someday in the future while Ennebal holds their newborn baby. “Yes,” Aleks might murmur in this psychotic vision that the anger is spawning in Halves’ mind. “I like that. We’ll name him Lionick. You are such a thoughtful, beautiful woman, to name our child after my dearly departed brothers.”

  The next punch Halves throws misses his brother’s face, and his knuckles collide directly into the concrete floor.

  For once, something else stops Halvesand Lesser.

  Halves cries out, his throat on fire as a thousand tiny knives cut his neck from within. Aleks must have parried his head somehow, or else Halves was so blinded by his own rage that he missed. He falls away from his brother, grabbing his hand and holding it to his chest protectively as it throbs and screams a song of regret at him.

  Did he just break his right hand? Did he just break all of his knuckles? The hit was so hard, it reminds him of a train crashing into his palm, or of that time he made his brother run into him and caused his arm to break in three places.

  Ennebal shouts out again. Halves looks up at her, confused, his hand throbbing.

  Then Aleks tackles him from the side, unseen. The pair of them slam to the floor. All the air rushes out of his lungs as his brother lands on him full-force. The last thing Halvesand sees is his brother’s fist as it drops onto his eyes.

  “STOP!” shrieks Ennebal’s voice from a thousand miles away.

  Halves reaches up to claw at his brother, to grab hold of his arm or his hand, to do anything. Before he can even think to use his Legacy to stop whatever’s coming, Aleks’s bony knuckles meet his face again, and this time, he hears something crack.

  Was it Aleksand’s fis
t that broke, or Halvesand’s face?

  It matters not. Aleks doesn’t stop throwing his fists, and Halves doesn’t stop shoving and fighting his brother off. The taste of iron and blood fills his mouth, a taste he’s quite used to. Is it from the shouting that his throat now bleeds? Is it from a part of his lip that Aleks just busted open?

  ‘Sympathy will kill you,’ Obert had taught him. ‘Hesitation will kill you. Show your heart on those streets, you die.’

  Aleks scores another punch. Something cracks again.

  ‘Is your blood thick enough, Lesser?’

  Another punch cracks his nose. He spits up blood, gagging.

  ‘Thick enough to kill? Even if—’

  Even if a brother, I remember. One particularly powerful punch knocks Halves’ face sideways. He grunts—a thousand knives in his throat again—and then he feels as if his whole neck could explode.

  Something cracks again, louder. Something releases.

  The punching stops at once. Halves freezes with his hands clung to his brother’s shirt. When he next opens his eyes, he finds Aleks staring down at him in horror, his mouth stuck open, his hands in the air, as if afraid to touch his brother. His knuckles are bloody.

  Halves finds for a moment that he can’t swallow, like a great big lump sits in his throat. He gasps, coughs, and sputters, unable to get in a decent breath.

  “Halves?” hisses Aleks, horrified. “H-H-Halves …? Can you …?”

  Halves very suddenly needs to sit up. He shoves at his brother, effectively knocking the stunned idiot off of him, then awkwardly climbs to his knees. His foot hits something.

  The neck armor. It broke off. The front of the ugly metal thing is painted with black blood, like oil oozing from an Ancient’s machine.

  Alarmed, Halves grows still. Only a very shallow breath makes it into his lungs before he slowly, carefully lifts a hand to his throat. His fingertips touch the scabbed, swollen, tender skin of his neck, and when he draws them back, he sees the same black blood.

  Why is my blood black?

  “I-I-I’ll get help!” cries Aleks at once, nearly in tears. “I’ll go and get help!” His hurried, heavy footfalls fill the locker room in his swift departure, his Legacy making his feet heavier and his running, faster.

  Still struggling to breathe—one strained, shallow breath after another—Halves lifts his eyes to Ennebal. She stands there wearing only a scowl. To him, she shakes her head and says, “Fools. The pair of you. A pair of fools, you both. You could’ve died.”

  Halves’ dark eyes drift to her swollen belly. He doesn’t respond. He isn’t so sure he won’t die in another minute or two. Already, his head swims from lack of air.

  Then his eyes drift up farther to a narrow window where he sees tiny flakes of snow collecting on the glass.

  Snow? … Didn’t we just have a winter?

  While he ponders the question on a dizzied, air-deprived brain, the tap, tap, tap of the showerhead somewhere in the locker room touches his ears, the gentle tapping of the Goddess of Death on his door. Anwick answered. So did Lionis.

  0272 Mercy

  I am blood and bone and poison in the shape of …

  “The Slum King,” states Liggie to the group of settled women.

  Several of them nod in assent. A few appear unsure, glancing at one another with questions in their eyes.

  Liggie eyes the uncertain women. “Think it through, ladies. I’ve heard he is a Lifted hater, too. It makes total sense, does it not? He is fighting to take Atlas back for the slums. It’s about damn time those of us below that stinking Lifted Shithole have the power.”

  “And you think he—this Slum King—is going to help us find the missing Mirand-Thrin bank?” asks a woman at the end of the table.

  Another woman cuts in before Liggie can answer. “But who’s to say the Mad Posse Fuckers didn’t break all the Lifted banks open and steal the gold?” She smacks the table in frustration and leans back in her chair. “We might’ve been all this time chasing an empty vault of that former To-Be-Bitch.”

  “That’s what I heard!” admits another. “That all the Lifted gold is stolen and gone! All those idiot Lifted hiding down here in the sixth are either gone or dead or poor now.”

  Another woman scoffs, adding, “Serves them right.”

  “Yeah!” shouts another in agreement, and the others among the eleven women start to make similar comments, nodding their heads and muttering amongst themselves.

  Mercy is in the back of the room leaning against the wall, her arms tightly folded across her chest, her eyes heavy and bored. She now and then sneaks a glance at the living room where the old Lifted Lady once rested in a chair. She’s no longer there.

  “What’s your thought on this, Lady Man?” asks Liggie with a hint of mockery in her tone. “You look rather pensive.”

  All eyes turn to Scot, who is sitting in a chair separate from the table at which all the others are seated. His hands are folded in his lap and his attention seemed to be on his knees. Now, he lifts his face up, his bright blond hair shaken at the effort, and then he chokes out, “E-Excuse me?”

  “Your thought. You have one. Share it.”

  Scot glances between the women, then back at Mercy, who just returns his glance with a cold, indifferent one of her own.

  And then he says the stupidest possible thing he can. “It’s just that there isn’t usually actual gold in Lifted banks. It’s done digitally. So … unless one of you has a digital bank here in the slums, then you are just spinning wheels searching for Mirand-Thrin’s—”

  “Here in the slums …?” mutters Liggie.

  And as obliviously, naïvely stupid as Scot is, he doesn’t even realize yet what he just let slip. “Yes, here in the slums. I might also recommend accessing a Charmer. A powerful one, at that. The Lifted banks are highly encrypted and protected by ancient Legacies and powers. That’s why they have the saying: Tight as a Lifted vault.” He gives a meek smile at a woman nearest him and a shrug.

  The room is silent.

  Mercy nearly slaps her own forehead in exasperation for Scot’s utter lack of awareness for his own words.

  Liggie slowly comes around the table, bringing herself not two paces in front of Scot, her full height and shadow bearing down upon him. “Scot was your name?” she asks.

  Scot swallows. “Y-Yes. Scot. I’m Scot.” He pokes a thumb back at Mercy. “M-Mercy’s friend. Her friend.”

  “Her friend,” echoes Liggie suspiciously, then lifts her big, heavy eyes to meet Mercy’s.

  Mercy regards Liggie with a smirk and silence.

  Liggie turns her full attention back onto the stupid, quivering male. “And where did you say you were from again?”

  Scot’s nervous eyes flit about at a face or two, perhaps now feeling the worry, before he meekly answers, “Th-Third. The third.” He thumbs in the other direction, as if literally pointing toward the ward itself. “I was a nurse there. Prior to the M-Madness.”

  “He’s lying,” one of the women at the table says. “I feel his pulse speeding up. I feel his throat constricting, too.”

  “Definitely hiding something,” another woman agrees.

  “I … I-I have a n-nervous disposition,” Scot exclaims, stiffening up in his chair. He keeps turning his head quickly from woman to woman, fretting with his hands. “I am from the third. I’m a slum boy, like all of you. I-I-I mean, a slum p-person. Y-You’re not boys. I’m a boy. A m-man. You’re—”

  “You know an awful lot about Lifted banks,” Liggie points out, then shoots Mercy another look.

  “I’m learned. I-I learned a lot after the Fall. L-Lifted people came to my clinic. Lots of Lifted … idiots. They told me a lot. They are very trusting and s-stupid people. Why’re you all looking at me like that?” Scot blurts out suddenly, rising from his chair.

  One soft diminutive shove of Liggie’s hand has Scot sitting right back down. The bull of a woman turns her face to the others. There is all darkness and accusation be
hind her eyes.

  Mercy knows there’s no turning back now. She steps forward. “Fine!” she calls out, bringing everyone’s attention to her. “You want the truth? He’s a little Lifted bitch I abducted. He’s mine.”

  “Lifted?” hisses one of the women, followed by several others who whisper and scowl and mutter snide remarks.

  Liggie is the only one to have no reaction. She simply stares at Mercy from across the room, long and hard. Then, once the women have quieted down, she lifts her chin. “He’s … yours?” she questions, almost challengingly.

  “Mine,” states Mercy. “Where else do you think I get my intel? The wimp is under the influence of my powerful Legacy of control.”

  “Yes, so you’ve mentioned that convenient Legacy.” Liggie snorts derisively. “So why haven’t you made a control of one of my ladies? Is it because you’re lying?”

  “My power only works on men.” Mercy eyes Scot, who stares back with apologies—and fear—dripping from his eyes. “Weak men.”

  Liggie comes around the table, facing off with Mercy. “And why should I—or any of my women—believe you? You’ve been nothing but trouble since the day you joined us. It’s a wonder we even keep you around.”

  Mercy quirks an unimpressed eyebrow. “Maybe I am putting a control on you. For as much of a man as you seem to resemble. Is that a mustache creeping upon your lip?”

  The women in the room draw deadly silent.

  Not even the wind outside seems to blow, the whole house still as a photograph.

  Then, like an exploding bomb, Liggie bursts into belly-jiggling, uproarious laughter.

  For a second, no one knows what to make of it. Then, as if choosing to follow a lead, the other women start to laugh, too. Soon, everyone in the room is doubled over in laughter.

  All except for Mercy, who stands there as rigid as a stone, and Scot, who looks like he just might have pissed his pants in that chair.

  “THIS, my friends, is why we keep the green-lipped bitch!” cries out Liggie through the tears of laughter in her eyes. “Her WIT! Her BITE! Her FERVOR!” She can barely get out the words through her explosive laughter. “She is a FORCE, my friends! A FORCE!”