by Daryl Banner
“How much longer do—?” Cope begins to ask.
“Thirty minutes, yet,” answers Bee rather curtly, likely to spare the Lead Officer from having to answer.
Cope nods resolutely, then hugs his gun to his chest as he stares down at his boots in thought. The four of them are geared from head to toe, though they’ll likely be arming down the moment they arrive at the Core, their weapons unnecessary once inside.
For the first time since they left Eleven Wings, their quiet fifth occupant suddenly clears his throat, making himself known with a single word: “Pardon.”
The three Guardian turn to him: Lord Liaff, the seventy-seven-year-old man who, apparently, has been designated somehow by the folk of the Upstairs as the next King of Atlas. He isn’t handsome in the least. His nose is large and bumpy, as if stricken by a devil’s pox. His bushy eyebrows are pulled permanently together by some invisible thread, making him look like he’s scowling no matter how polite and soft his voice is. He has long, knobby legs and a short, plump upper torso that has never lifted a bit of iron above his shoulders, except perhaps a fork to his mouth at a Lifted table.
It was never lost on Halvesand that Liaff is a Privileged. It was a fleeting hope of countless slumborn at Eleven Wings that a woman or man from the slums would be named by the Upstairs as the next Queen or King. But Lord Liaff was, according to what Halves heard, a man from the King’s Research, and he worked alongside both Janlord and Taylon, former Marshals to King Greymyn. Though there may be a better candidate dwelling (or hiding) elsewhere in the slums of Atlas, Lord Liaff is the only one who’s turned up and who has the experience and leadership instinct.
Not that Halves has seen evidence of either experience or said instinct. “Pardon,” the man repeats. “I am picking up a bit of anxiety. It is the sort of anxiety that one feels before a wrongdoing.”
Cope sputters. “A-Anxiety? Sorry, my Lord?”
“His Legacy,” mutters Bee in a tone that suggests Cope is a total idiot for not following. “He feels others’ worries with his teeth.”
“More than worries,” amends Lord Liaff politely. “And I’m quite astute with it. A lifetime of training. There are no less than seventy-three different flavors of anxiety. This particular one is that of an adult who is about to commit a wrongdoing, likely a crime for which he or she is quite worried they’ll be caught. An adult, not a youth. A youth’s version of this same anxiety tastes notably different.”
“That is a very specific worry,” notes Cope with wide eyes.
Lord Liaff gives him a sudden, cherry-cheeked smile. “You may like to hear what sex-related worries feel like.” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “That’s twenty-two different kinds of throbbing in my back molars.”
Cope, clearly unsure whether to be amused or offended, simply bristles and looks away, his own face flushing. Halves wonders if maybe Lord Liaff is currently feeling such worries from Cope, hence the taunt. Is Cope having sexual anxieties toward one of them in the chrome caravan?
“I admired your mother. Admire, rather. Still do.”
Halvesand lifts his eyes to Bee across the aisle from him, the one who uttered those unexpected words.
“I never thought she was a bad person. Even as we escorted her, the whole while I thought to myself, ‘This woman isn’t a murderer.’ She saved our lives on the streets. Mine, Cope’s, and Gabel’s, in fact.”
“Gabel’s, especially,” mumbles Cope, staring at the floor as if the memory was as fresh as yesterday’s breakfast.
“Also,” Bee goes on, her posture stiffening, “I was friends with Regory Janis. Pace, rather.”
That gets Halvesand’s full attention.
“We trained briefly together in the sixth before he took his post in your Quadrant. He died at the hands of the one who did that to you, didn’t he?” She gives a nod at his neck. When Halvesand’s only response is a subtle tightening of his jaw, Bee is perceptive enough to understand. “You are truly a hero, Lesser. Like mother, like son.”
He earns himself a stab of guilt from those words, considering how he left things with his mother. Thankfully, neither Cope nor Bee mention the unborn child he’s left behind, despite the fact that everyone within a ten block radius had heard Ennebal’s outburst. Forrest is sensible enough to keep out of their conversation entirely.
The same cannot be said for the To-Be-King. “Your mother … She was the lovely lady who unintentionally assassinated the former Marshal of Order, right?”
Bee and Cope stare at the King as if he’d just lost his mind. Halves isn’t afforded the luxury of a rotatable neck, so he simply lifts an eyebrow and listens.
Lord Liaff sighs. “Oh, what a most … peculiar and unfortunate circumstance to learn the true extent of one’s Empathic Legacy.”
“The only thing peculiar and unfortunate about that situation was Taylon Redbrade himself,” states Bee tersely. “May his soul rest in slummer’s shit.”
“Bee,” scolds the voice of Lead Officer Forrest, sharp as a nail, making it apparent that, while not contributing a word to any of their conversation, she has been keeping a keen ear.
Bee folds her hands in her lap, says, “Sorry, commander,” then purses her lips and keeps silent. Cope’s eyes go wide as he stares down at the gun in his lap, his own lips sealed.
Lord Liaff might’ve had more he intended to say about Halves’ mother, but it goes unsaid as the five of them sit and wait for the chrome to carry them to their destination.
Then the hum of the engine cuts off at once.
The chrome stops in its place and drops, yet doesn’t touch the road, some auto-mechanism keeping it still hovering an inch from its surface. Perfect, unsettling silence surrounds them.
Except for a breath drawn by Forrest. “Arms,” she commands.
At once, Bee’s gun is drawn and charged, its tip glowing bright pink. Cope’s bulletgun is lifted in two shaky hands, his eyes alert and full of fear. Halvesand has a knife unsheathed in one hand and a small gun in the other, cocked and ready. Lord Liaff makes no move, still as the dead. The five of them wait, arms brandished, and listen.
Through the front windshield, Halves sees a completely vacant intersection. Through the side windows, only bare-faced buildings and empty sidewalks. What caused the chrome to stop?
Bee’s question comes in a whisper. “Are we out of—?”
“We’ve plenty of fuel,” answers Forrest, her eyes darting across the control panel as she presses a button here, twists a knob there, and then taps on a digital display in the center. “The whole machine is unresponsive. It’s asleep.”
“Is this thing younger than two years old?” jests the To-Be-King from his seat, his eyes watery with amusement.
The four of them turn to give him hardened stares of their own.
No one appreciates the humor.
“Is it a Charmer?” asks Cope, putting on a shield of bravery with his lowered tone. “Someone who can whisper to machines?”
“Possibly,” answers Forrest. “Very possibly.”
Bee nods toward the door. “I will go and scope the area on your command. I can see the unseen.”
“Yes, you can,” agrees Forrest. “But you’ve been a long time off the streets. Is your Legacy trained?”
“Yes. I train my eyes daily. I’m ready, commander.”
“Good.” Forrest turns her gaze onto Cope. “You will cover her. Use your pulses.”
Before Cope can answer, Lord Liaff sits forward in his seat with a sudden urgency. “Ah, now a second man. And a woman. Both with the same nervous tingle. They are anticipating something.”
“Can your Legacy sense where they are?” asks Forrest.
The To-Be-King glances to his left, then points. “Thereabouts.”
“And distance? Are they far? Are they near?”
“Between near and far.”
“Ten paces? Five? Across the street or around the corner? Can you tell if they’re even focused on us, or if you’re just sensing a p
air of irrelevant criminals within a building near us?”
“I feel they are focused on us. I feel that they can see us.”
Bee turns to peer out the window at that, her eyes wide and her Legacy hard at work to see whatever she can. It was never fully explained to Halves, but something about her Legacy allows her to see things that are otherwise shielded from others’ eyes. She can spot a person’s shadow in a shadowy alley, or a person who’s somehow concealed themselves with their own Legacy, or even particles of saliva from someone’s recent sneeze or exhale of breath.
“Closer yet,” the To-Be-King says suddenly after a second of concentration. “Oh, much, much closer. They are approaching us.”
“Bee, aside.” Forrest draws her blade: an impressive, curved blacksteel sword, jagged with teeth halfway up an edge. “I’m taking lead. Cover me. Cope, you cover her. Lesser, guard the King.”
Bee nods and takes a step back from the door. “Officer.”
With a push of a button, the door swings open, and Lead Officer Forrest steps out of the caravan as lightly as a cat. Bee hops out right behind her just as gracefully, soft on her feet despite all her armor. Cope follows, head darting in all directions, wary, his breath seeming to be held.
Halves bites the inside of his cheek, waiting. He wants to believe that he was told to watch the King because someone must, but can’t help the feeling that it is because he’s seen as the broken one, despite all of Forrest’s reassurances. Cope could have stayed behind just as well, he reasons. Sure, his pulsing Legacy can stun potential threats, but my Legacy can stop them entirely.
But enough whining. Halves keeps alert, watching through the windows as the three come around the chrome and venture into the intersection, weapons drawn and eyes searching about them.
“What do you suspect it is?” comes the not-quiet-enough-for-Halves’-liking whisper of Lord Liaff. “A band of brigands? A couple of bored slum rat teenagers?”
Halves keeps his eyes on the street outside. Slum rat. The man surely doesn’t hide his Liftedness. Slum rat. Doesn’t the old fool realize he’s surrounded by and has been protected by “slum rats” all this time? Or are Guardian given a pass from his judgments?
“Oh, of course,” he hisses. “You are the one who cannot speak. My apologies. I’m afraid I know not your sign language.”
Halves smirks. It’s called hand language, he’d correct him if he cared enough to, but doesn’t. The three of them seem to be headed around the corner, out of his sight. Don’t wander too far, he hopes, frustrated he can’t see what they see. If you do not return, I’ll be forced to come after you, and I’ve a Privileged to babysit.
That’s when he hears a scuffle at the door.
He brings his knife up just as fast as the intruder charges into the caravan—a yellow-haired youth half his height, weight, and age, with dirt on his cheeks and tatters for clothes. A slum rat, indeed. When he finds the boy completely unarmed, however, he holds back his own knife and watches him warily. The boy’s eyes, just as sharp, are on him and the To-Be-King.
Then the boy makes a sound not unlike some strange animal. It carries like the screech of a giant bird and causes Halves to wince.
Another boy appears at the door, an identical twin of the first.
Twins? Halves furrows his brow and plants his feet. Perhaps he is the perfect person to guard Lord Liaff after all; he is a completely impregnable human blockade.
Then a third boy hops into the caravan behind the second. And a fourth. And a fifth. All of them identical. All of them with the same smudges of dirt on their face and hair messed up in the same way. Even a particular tear of the sleeve of their shirts is the exact same.
Clones. Copies. He can replicate himself.
But are the replications real or illusory?
The first boy—whether the original or a copy sent in before the original—charges Halves at once. The boy crashes into him like a piece of fruit pitched at a brick wall and drops to the floor in agony, crying out. The next two boys growl like hungry dogs and charge at Halves together, but the two of them are met with a similar bone-crunching fate. All three boys scream out in pain.
Halves readies his knife, feeling doubtful the remaining “copies” of the boys will continue to repeat their predecessors’ mistakes.
Then a sixth and a seventh boy—again, identical—appear at the door. The front of the caravan is crowded with menacing boys’ faces, each of them seeming to look somewhere else for a way around the impassible human wall.
Halves makes a jab at the nearest one with his knife. He wishes he could speak, if only just to threaten them away. He really, really doesn’t want to stab a single one of them. For all he knows, they really could be a set of seven identical brothers. If it weren’t for the identical tears in their clothing, too.
Then he hears a woman’s shriek in the distance. Bee? Forrest? His eyes flick up to the windshield for a second, hoping to catch sight of something.
All seven boys take advantage of the moment by charging him at once. Even the might of seven boys feels like blocking a breeze to Halvesand, who has stopped a full-on train with his palm. If it wasn’t for that train, I might never have the confidence I do now to withstand an onslaught of clones.
The nearest boys crash into Halves, and then the ones behind them crash into the first. Halves still doesn’t budge an inch.
Time to aggress. Halvesand takes a step forward, towering over the boys and wielding his knife, teeth bared. Some of them step back, intimidated. Others closer to Halves are shoved back by his sheer strength. No matter how many times they charge at him, Halvesand remains immovable due to his Legacy. It is like a wall closing in, slowly pushing the seven (or is there eleven now?) out the door.
“A feeling far more certain,” calls out the To-Be-King at Halves’ back warningly. “A trap is closing. Yes, yes, someone feels victorious, someone with a thirst for blood.”
Halves doesn’t like the sound of that. He stops another unseen boy-copy from the side, then takes a beating of fists from yet another closer to the door. How many of these fools are there?
Just before he steps out of the door, he turns his body to give the To-Be-King a stern look and a gesture toward the door itself.
Lord Liaff blinks. “You wish me to close myself inside? But then how will any of you—?”
Another shriek reaches Halves’ ears. He turns toward it, but sees nothing within view. It must be coming from around the corner. Halves grabs one of the boys by the scruff of his shirt, which then tears, setting the boy free to scramble away. Regardless of his efforts, there are still countless others shoving at him and trying to get by.
That’s when he notices one by the wall of a building nearby. He’s the only one not fighting. He stares ahead of himself with fierce conviction, his eyes not focused on any one thing, like he’s caught in a storm of thoughts or a terrible headache.
Or perhaps there’s more to his concentration.
Perhaps he’s the master puppeteer.
Halves gives it two seconds of thought before he lifts his knife, aims, and flings it straight at the boy’s shoulder.
The knife stabs straight through the collar of his shirt and pins the boy to the wooden slats of the building at his back.
All the boys freeze in place and let out a shout of surprise in perfect unison.
The one at the wall blinks, as if waking from a dream, startled, then looks at his shoulder to discover his situation. He reaches for the knife, then thinks the better of it, staring at his white shirt as the red starts to invade the white, aghast. Obviously Halves hit a touch too close, nicking the boy’s skin. He’d only meant to pin his collar in place to trap him.
All the other boys watch him intently, confused, unmoving, all their faces half in pain, half in shock.
Halves steals the opportunity by muscling the two remaining boys out of the chrome, after which the door promptly shuts at his back. At least Lord Lifted Liaff has the sense to obey. None of the bo
ys seem to notice or fight back when they’re shoved out of the way. In fact, some of them topple over like statues, unaware they’ve even been toppled. He makes it to the wall at the exact moment the boy finally gathers the strength to pull the knife free, only to have it swiped from his grasp by Halves who turns it right back onto him, the point of the knife at the boy’s cheek and his beady-eyed face.
All the clones come back to life at once and rush Halves from every direction.
But still he doesn’t budge, holding ground. The knife steady at the main one’s cheek, Halves presses it more threateningly, touching skin now.
A single bead of blood frees itself at the point.
The boys stop fighting him at once, all of them growing still. Maybe they are afraid. Maybe they are seeing the pool of red grow at the boy’s shoulder.
Maybe I cut him deeper than I realized.
“Back away from him.”
Without letting up on his knife at all, Halvesand twists his torso to get a look at the person from whom the command came. What he sees instead is Bee with her own gun held at her head by yet another identical boy, Cope with a dagger held to his back by a clone and yet another to his chest, and Lead Officer Forrest with her blacksteel sword at her neck, except hers is held by an all new person: a man with a black scarf covering his face from chin to forehead with just a slit in the middle for his eyes to show. His legs are skinny and sucked into a pair of tight black pants, and his black button shirt is open wide at the top, revealing a patch of hair on his pale-as-milk chest.
“Down with the knife, and back away,” he demands again.
Halvesand doesn’t move. He assesses the looks on the others’ faces, including the additional clones. Surely the five of us were not taken over by just some multiplying boy and a man with his face wrapped up in silk. There must be more out there.
“Lesser,” commands Forrest. “Bring down your weapon.”
It’s her voice that makes his heart sink. Does she have a plan, or are we truly giving in to these brigands? Even still, he hesitates, not yet convinced that he should give up his hold.
