by Daryl Banner
He begins the briefing on what tonight’s undertaking will involve. “We will be attending the Lunar Festival as innocent people, unknown and unimportant. Since it is being held near our ward, only three of you will lead the actions of the team, setting the vandal paint bombs we’ve constructed. These bombs will destroy nothing, but will paint our slogans high against the walls of buildings and the streets of the festivities. I must repeat: there will be no violence. Our mission is to make ourselves known, to press into the sky a fear that they must not ignore us, to wake the world.
“The festival’s location this month is opportune, as it is in full view of the Eastly Lifted City Garden, known to those above as the Lord’s Garden. It is even speculated that many sky folk will be observing the festival, which means our name will be known by those above as well as below. The bombs are designed to print our words in such size that even the skyborn will read and know them.
“Though you all will pose as guests of the festival, only three of you will secure the bombs in their places and arm them. The three of you in lead will be Cintha for decoy, Victra for sight, and you, newcomer Anwick, as the bomb layer.”
Wick’s throat seizes up. A few faces turn to him, and though he sees their expressions are all encouraging and proud, he finds the whole of his body locked with fear. He was sure he’d be one of the ones staying behind with the intel, that Rone would be the one to set and arm the bombs … or Juston or Adamant. Why him?
“I …” he starts, stealing a glance at Rone, surprised to find him beaming proudly. “I’ve … I’ve heard of the Lord’s Garden,” he gets out finally, opting instead not to express his utter terror. “It’s my father’s favorite. He says sometimes it rains gold. He works in the smithing district near it, found many a coin there.”
“Well, fortune will rain on us tonight,” responds Yellow, “though I doubt it will be in the form of gold. Do you three accept your roles in lead?”
Cintha only gives one soundless nod. Victra lifts her chin, always appearing annoyed and superior. When Wick is about to speak, someone else does instead: “We need a stronger message than paint.”
Yellow cuts off the interrupter. “You need patience, Adamant. Our mission has not changed, nor will it. Patience, patience.”
Adamant doesn’t give in so easy. “I didn’t join this crew four years ago to paint the city into submission. Patience, you say. Fuck your patience. Why don’t we burn the pylons? It’ll blow up the engine beneath the Lifted City park, and then you’ll have yourself a real message: ain’t nothing stays in the sky longer than it belongs. Blow the fuckers up. Make it rain gold, that’s what I say.”
“We will not reopen the issue,” says Yellow tiredly, “as you already know and have known since your first day here what our stance on violence and the taking of innocent lives is, Adamant. It will not happen. Find patience.”
“They are not innocent,” he spits back, eyes dark with fury. “Folk with privilege fired my dad from his job because he got too good at it. Put my sister and her unborn child in an early grave because we couldn’t afford to treat her for the sickness her Legacy brought on her. Patience.” Adamant’s risen, his face visibly turning red with a quickened heart full of rage, and he cuts off something else Yellow was about to say. “Don’t you give me that crap about bombs being outlawed! You’d have to be pretty naïve not to think the King sits on a throne of them, a whole secret chamber. Old, fat Greymyn’s just biding his time. He’s surely patient. He can afford to be, the fucker. I heard about a Weapon that the Sanctum’s—”
“Bombs and Weapons and Kings, I’ve heard it all.” Yellow parts through the room, puts his face up to Adamant’s. “We do not have all night and there’s still preparations to make. Lay down your dreams of death and dying and listen to your heart. Even the people up there came once, long ago, from down here.”
“You only say that because they pay you,” Adamant presses on, uncaring. “Must be nice, rendering such service to the highborn superpowers who’d sooner piss on your head than listen to your heart. What great heart they must have. To let die my sister and the nephew or niece I could’ve had.”
“I cannot speak for the ones who’ve wronged you and your family. But those in the sky, they have hearts, Adamant, and hearts change. It is human nature,” Yellow says, turning to include the rest of the crew in this. “Even a room buried deep in the earth that’s been dark for centuries is changed instantly at the mere strike of a match against its walls. My friends, we are that flame, and after tonight, Sanctum will know. Our patience will pay off.”
“Cheers to that,” says Rone, lifting a glass that is instantly swiped from his hand. “Hey! What the hey—!”
“No chemical for you tonight.” It’s Victra who now holds the glass. “If I have to see straight, you have to see straight.”
Yellow nods to the crew. “It’s time to let it rain.”
Over the next hour, Wick is fascinated with the order that takes the room. Arrow and Prat situate themselves at a desk with computers set opposite them, tapping away and explaining to one another what they will do in countless cases of error. Juston and Adamant dress themselves, earpieces in place. When Wick is handed his own earpiece by Cintha, she warns him, “It will squawk unintelligibly into your ear now and then. Arrow tries, being the only Charmer we know, but his gadgets aren’t perfect.”
Wick thanks her, pushes the thing into his ear before Rone guides him to an area behind the three-lion tapestry and explains how the bombs are set.
“My dad wasn’t a perfect man,” Rone tells him as they’re packing up to leave, “but he could always tell if a man had a good heart. Dad and I witnessed a robbery one night when I was only six or seven, a Sanctum man being taken for all his gold by a gang of kids. When dad came to the man’s rescue, I knew it meant the man had a good heart, even if he was highborn. You could tell from the man’s clothes what he was, it was unmistakable: a Privileged, a man of the Lifted City. Son of Sanctum. My dad was not successful in fending off the young robbers, getting a beating himself. Guardian arrived, but it was not to save the day. The kids took off, quick on their feet, but my dad was weary from the brawl, and Guardian apprehended him at once, thinking him one of the assailants. I still remember the look in the Sanctum man’s brown, glassy eyes—the way he stared at us in equal parts fear and disgust. As my dad was carried off, I begged the Sanctum man to speak up, to tell them my dad was not one of the robbers, but the man simply shook in his boots, blood pouring from his nose, from a gash on his forehead, from his left ear, and he said, ‘Get away from me, rat! You’re all the same … greedy, needy, and …’ Then he made his way, limping into the distance, gone. I never knew the third thing us slum rats are, according to him. I wonder the third thing every day. Evil? Worthless? Dirty? My dad was wrong about him … That was my last thought as Guardian took him away forever: he was wrong. I never saw my dad again.”
An hour passes, and they’re on the train aimed for the Lunar Festival. An unpleasant cocktail of excitement, impatience, and dread clenches Wick’s neck, and it’s twisted worse by Rone’s story of his father. It was just one Sanctum man, he tries reasoning with himself. Just one selfish, horrible man. Not all slum men are good either. But then there was Adamant’s story too … the sister he lost, and the little one in her belly. Even lacking the details, the why, the how, it gives Wick little reason to feel at ease. Tonight, we let it rain, he thinks, trying to coach himself, but the only thing raining is the dread all over the confidence he’d earlier had.
Seated with Victra on one side and Cintha the other, Wick can’t stop pulling on his own hands. The tiny bag slung over his shoulder that carries the graffiti bombs feels heavier and heavier with every passing train station, with every tick of the clock, with every time Victra clears her throat or Cintha pokes at her earpiece.
Remember why, Wick tells himself. Remember why. A world without a screaming King, remember why. We’re going to wake the world.
The train pul
ls to a stop. A wave of people rise and begin to disembark, obvious attendees of the Lunar Festival, as many of them are dressed in white. Moon colors. Victra gets up, makes a tug on Wick’s arm, and he’s out of the train without knowing how he ever got his feet to move.
Approaching the festival on foot, Wick is overwhelmed by the amount of light flooding the street. So blinding, it’s a wonder you can even see the full moon in the sky, the very thing the festival celebrates. The courtyard in which it takes place is one of the largest in all three wards of this end of the city. Bazaars and vendors and tents are scattered everywhere, buildings towering all around the gigantic courtyard like a wall, hugging the light and soaking in the sparkling splendor of flashing carnival rides, of brightly-colored lamps and light posts, of the joyous screams and chatter of hundreds upon hundreds of people.
Wick doesn’t do well in crowds. Anxious enough already, he finds his breathing shortened by the amount of faces and feet and voice. It nearly stops him from going on, the volume of people …
“That wall,” Victra says, pointing. “Set up the first one to paint it. The second one will be that far wall, near the factory doors. Perfectly visible area. There’s no room to paint the ground like we wanted—too many people—so you’ll need to set one up on a rooftop, maybe. Except it isn’t as lit. No, no, you’ll need … Hey, Arrow. You there?” She pushes a finger into the earpiece, listening. “We need an ideal location for three and four. Hold on.” She closes her eyes, concentrating. Wick assumes she’s using her Legacy to peer through others’ eyes, searching the area.
Wick looks up, up, up. The underside of the Lifted City yawns over the square like a dark spaceship, except for the piece directly above—maybe twenty stories up or so—the brightly-lit Lord’s Garden of the sky. Even a few of the gigantic pylons that hold up the Lifted City are visible here, one of them not half a mile north. He has never been so close to the city above, no part of his home neighborhood seeming to kiss its feet like this festival does. No wonder Yellow picked it for their opportunity; they may as well be kneeling at the King’s throne itself.
“Third and fourth by the other wall, each of them to make a square,” Victra confirms, nodding at Wick. “Alright. Get on it, Wicky … We don’t have a lot of time.”
So the plan sets into motion. With Victra guiding him using her sight-borrowing skill, and Cintha somehow distracting people from his and Victra’s efforts—he still has yet to ascertain her exact Legacy—he’s directed eastward to the location of the first setting and given the cue, a subtle nod by Victra after she’s closed her eyes to police what those nearby see. Producing the first bomb from his bag, he is awed by how tiny they are … little cerulean baubles hardly measuring half a foot tall or wide that may easily be dismissed as pottery, masonry, or pieces of art. Little moons, that’s what a passerby might say.
He avoids the natural urge to peer around and ensure no one’s watching; that’s Victra’s job. For a panicked moment, he forgets where the tiny hidden lever is, and then becomes confused over which way to push it. I can’t ask over the earpiece, they’ll think I’m an idiot. He curses under his breath, furious he hadn’t paid better attention when Rone showed him.
“To the left, then up,” a voice softly tells him.
Wick doesn’t have to look to know who it is, a nervous smile finding him. “Thanks, Cinth.”
“Make it quick,” she says encouragingly.
The location is under a tree, set within its soil and aimed at such an angle to erupt along the east wall where there are fewest windows. Wick’s stomach turns so much, he’s afraid he’ll paint the wall with something else if he doesn’t finish soon. Every time he jabs the bomb into the soil, it tips over, not staying at the proper angle. Finally, on the sixth try, he gets it right.
The lever clicks, to the left and up. “Got it,” he whispers, then realizes he needs to push a finger into his ear to make Arrow’s Charm work. “Got it,” he repeats, pressing it gently.
“Three down,” Arrow responds.
Quickly, they blend back into the crowds and slither their way through drunken laughter, provocatively dancing adults, vague clouds of smoke and flashing lights, to the north end of the square. Victra shuts her eyes, then gives Wick a little nod. He answers by slipping the second bomb from his bag and setting it on the outer shelf of a window, its spout bent just right to display a message up the entire side of the building. The lever clicks left, then up. It’s getting easier as we go. Keep it going easier. “Done,” he says, mashing a finger and gaining confidence.
“To the west, then.”
And in the west section of the square, there is a little curtain wall—risen just next to a building and a skinny tree—to protect the actors’ privacy as they change costumes during a performance on an adjacent stage. When none of the actors are utilizing the curtain’s privacy, Wick does, quickly using it as a veil to climb up the skinny tree behind it and balancing the third unassuming blue bomb in its cradling branches. The bomb aims at the enormous wall, and a lever is clicked, assuring its timely cooperation.
As they move toward the south end of the square for the final bomb placement, Wick’s legs shake with anticipation, making his every step a chore. They dodge the likes of many a drunken man and woman, even a score of rowdy preteens whose parents are clearly not supervising them. They’re likely wasted away in some adults-only area. One of the kids says something to them, but Wick pays no mind, staggering on across the square with Victra and Cintha flanking him closely. They shout something else, and Wick doesn’t hear it either. He hears nothing but his own heartbeat.
The final location is in the awning of a storefront, which has been closed for this night of the Lunar Festival. Victra and Cintha make their Legacies move while Wick scales the edge of the building where it breaks into an alleyway, then balances along the rim to get within a hand’s reach of the blue-and-white awning. He clicks the lever first this time, then slips the bomb within the folds of fabric, aiming it at the wall above. Done, it’s done, it’s all done. He makes a grab at the wall, slowly letting himself down, then feels his foot slip and, before he can correct it, gracelessly tumbles to the ground with a sick grunt.
Wick dusts himself off, getting to his feet. As his eyes quickly scan the area, he discovers that, as promised, no suspicious stares return his own. He pokes his ear. “F-Fourth is set.”
“Well done,” answers Arrow. “We detonate on your signal.”
With all the paint bombs planted now, Wick feels a burden of weight release from his chest. I did it, he realizes, letting himself smile. He turns to the seer, grinning now. “Happy Lunar, Victra.”
She winks at him unsmilingly. “Give them the signal, Wicky. You’ve an earpiece, you earned it.”
All he must do is say the words ‘Let it rain’ and they will have exactly sixty seconds to remove themselves from the festival. After such fear clenching at his throat, three words never sounded so pretty. The thrill of this is insurmountable. He already can’t wait to be back at headquarters, everyone congratulating one another on the success. And it was so easy, they’ll say … so, so easy …
He pushes a finger into his ear, takes a deep breath, then says, “Let—”
There’s a distant explosion, but not of the paint. A silence chokes the festival, the cacophony of chatter and cheers and laughter strangled in an instant as every startled face glances up. The base of Lord’s Garden has burst to flame, red light replacing the white of earlier, blotting out the sky with fiery glow.
“What’s happened?” Victra whispers to her earpiece.
And then the true danger makes itself known: Lord’s Garden, piece by piece, begins to fall. Instantly, the silent crowd of hundreds shatters into screams and chaos. As enormous pieces of metal and concrete and chunks of flaming wood rain from the sky, men trample women trample men trample child as everyone begins to flee the square.
Wick spins around. The fourth paint bomb he’d just set rolls off the awning and bursts mid
air, spraying Wick with half the bluish paint. He cries out in surprise, blinded. Blinking the paint out of his eyes, his left hand is grabbed and he’s being dragged away—hopefully by Victra or Cintha, though he can in no way confirm. Everywhere around him, there is screaming, crying, hollering names and shouting obscenities.
The screaming alone is like to burst a thousand ears.
He manages to press enough paint out of his left eye to see, and suddenly Victra—who’d just a second ago had his hand—is gone. “Victra! W-Wait!” He pushes through people, breaking into a small opening in the crowd where he’s just in time to witness an enormous slab of concrete the width of a house land on that wild bunch of kids he saw earlier. They didn’t have a chance. Fire and wood still rain from the sky, all the heaviest debris crashing first, slamming like meteorites into the square, then gently followed by falling flowers and plants and green of the Lord’s Garden, floating down to rest on the carnage of flattened children and men, little roses and white-leaf, like gifts from Sanctum.
“Rone, Rone, Rone! Please!” cries Wick into his earpiece.
Squinting, he stumbles over rock and fiery wood and possible gravesites of people who’d fallen—people he may very well, at any second, be joining … the inky blue still smeared over his face and hands and right eye. The park still falls in pieces from the sky, and his heart’s gone somewhere up his throat, and his legs shake so terribly he can barely find purchase to scale and climb over the colossal pieces of Lord’s Garden that have rained down.
