Outlier: Rebellion

by Daryl Banner

  “Try this,” Wick says finally, handing Athan a royal blue shirt. Athan squeezes himself into it, struggling at the arms and neck, inspiring a laugh from Wick. The shirt’s a tight fit, snug at the shoulders and armpits, pulling on his chest and back like a hungry lover. “Looks good,” Wick says with humor in his voice. “Your muscles match your hair now.”

  Grinning, Athan is about to go for Wick’s lips again, but Wick’s turned back to the closet, maybe seeking another shirt for Rone. Wick’s jaw clenched tight, his eyes gone glassy, Athan can’t seem to shake a certain notion. That strange expression Wick made a moment ago, it looked almost like a baby’s yawn.

  0040 Halvesand

  With each step down, he feels the muscles in his legs grow weaker. Invisible men cling to his shoes, dragging. Maybe they’re the men whose justice was lost, the men Halves failed to protect. Dead souls now that haunt the Dark Abandon. Another’s invisible hands press down on his shoulders. If it weren’t for Halves’ Legacy stopping them, he’d surely be submerged twenty-hundred feet in the ground by the weight of these invisible men.

  Even when he arrives at the door of the chamber, infinite leagues below the dormitories, he finds there’s a small line formed; three others wait for their turn with Obert Ranfog. At least forty or so Guardian were sent to the Core at the Marshal’s command, but Halves and his brother were not among them. Many were scared to go, but sent anyway—yet others that eagerly yearned to be in the thick of the city’s latest danger were held back. Halves makes little sense of it all, as little sense can be had when people as honest and good as Halves are given people as lowly and crippled of morals as Grute. I am honest, he assures himself, standing in line and glowering. I am good and I am honest. So why does his stomach turn in saying so? Maybe I’m overreacting … Maybe I should just put up with Grute. Surely there are worse partners. But even after thinking it, Halves knows he’s wrong. A woman exits the office, another moves in. The line shifts forward. I am honest.

  Or maybe he just wishes Ennebal were at his side on those streets. Maybe he wonders if Aleks deserves her. He loves his brother, sure, but why must it always be him getting the goods? Aleks was the first one accepted into Guardian, a rare thing among boys of their home ward. Aleks always had higher scores in school, taking after dad’s smarts. Halves took more after mom, acting on impulse, less on strategy. He’s also cursed with empathy, making it near impossible for him to truly beat an enemy. Maybe that’s why Aleks wins: he lets him. That idea makes Halves smile.

  Suddenly he’s the only one left waiting, and Obert is standing at the door, dark eyes resting on him. “Lesser.”

  For a second, he can’t seem to make his legs work. And then they do, bringing himself into the dim, dank chamber of Obert, two or three stories beneath the streets, eight or nine below the dorms, so deep in the earth you can hear the whispers of the dead. Or so his dumb superstitious hallmates would say, Grute included, but Halves hears nothing.

  “What’s it you want, Lesser?”

  Halves gathers his words, considering what, of his many issues, he should announce first. Grute is the more senior Guardian, and therefore dictates what is written on every report issued of their daily patrols. Halves is certain that exactly none of his own words make it to the final report, and exactly all of Grute’s does. For upwards of a week now, Grute’s claimed credit for shit he hasn’t done: rescues, near-misses, gold returned to rightful owners, secrets of rebel activity and underground whispers caught in his mighty net. No mention whatsoever of the sex, the stealing, the manipulation … When Halves thinks of his partner, he only sees crying women in glass boxes.

  “Out with it.” Obert’s given into scribbling things in a notebook on his desk, always so insufferably busy since his promotion. He’s never preferred typing or electronics; that, or Sanctum doesn’t care to afford him the simple ease of a computer and a screen. “We only have minutes before the sun rises and shifts rotate, and I’m likely to be called out myself to hunt in the Core at Taylon’s side, so help me. Spit it out, Lesser.”

  “Well,” Halves finally manages, “that is, in fact, a bit of the reason I’ve come to you. Shifts rotating …”

  “Burnt out already? Not even in your third month. Or is it not even your second?”

  “No, no. Sir, I meant …” You better be sure about this, Halves. You better be damn sure, because as soon as you speak up, there is no unsaying it. “I meant that I have … an issue. With … with my partner, in fact.”

  “What’s this issue.” Obert keeps writing and writing. He’s not even looking at me.

  “I … I require a new one, sir.”

  “Require. Hm. What’s wrong with the current one?”

  “He’s a—a thief and a liar and a ch-cheat. On our first call, he broke into a club, took advantage of all the women on a false lead, and paid with false gold he made by his own Legacy.”

  “And you let him?” Still writing. I’m having a conversation with the top of his head.

  “My every attempt at righting him has failed. I think spending such extra effort in righting a wronged partner keeps me from righting the wrongs of the street. It’s wasteful. I’m charged with ridding the criminals of the street while I, myself, am working alongside one. And the rules of Guardian prevent me from ridding him, so, I guess, so … I’m in need of a new partner.”

  Obert even still doesn’t look up from the desk, his short black pen scribbling and scribbling and scribbling. Halves winces, reminded of the sound of bugs scuttling along a gritty surface. This was a mistake, he realizes.

  Then Obert comes to a stop at last, setting down his pen and leaning back, his chair creaking. Their eyes meet and only ice lives between them. Horrible, steely ice. “Very well, Lesser. Remind me of this fool’s name.”

  Halves swallows once, licks all the dry off his lips. “Grute.”

  Obert’s steel-hard connection with Halves’ eyes lasts for so long, he starts to worry his skull is being invaded by another’s invisible hands, for the way his brain begins to throb. Then at once Obert breaks the stare, reaching at a metal box thing at the wall. He taps it with his needle fingers and, drawing breath, says only the words, “Runlay, to the office.”

  This is when Halves begins to tremble. All his smarts, all his height, all his strength in stopping anything at his palm is now rendered into a slimy soup he fears can’t even hold up his own body. Are these legs beneath him, or noodles? Grute is as slick as mud, Halves knows, his heart sinking to his bowels. He will talk himself out of it, as he talks out of anything, and I’ll suffer for my involvement.

  “Sir …”

  “You’ve spoken enough,” says Obert, relaxed in his chair and waiting as if for a drink order to arrive. “Now your partner will have his say, as is his right.”

  “Yes, sir. But—”

  “I don’t have the Legacy of bending people in half,” Obert says evenly, “but it doesn’t mean I deserve any less respect than our Marshal. Keep silent your mouth, and after Grute’s had his say, we’ll come to a decision.”

  Halves already knows what that decision will be. Shut up and deal with it, he can already hear them. Grute will treat me with worse contempt now. He’ll murder me and cut me up and cover his tracks. I’ll be left in a sewer somewhere, never to be found. He’ll adapt the pieces of my body into pieces of a cat and no one will mourn me. His kind is one Halves thought he was working to rid the city of, not the kind he’d be forced to find love for. Guardian looked so different to him only weeks ago. Respectful. Dignified. A thing to boast proudly of, a thing to give him reason to smile on every sunrise, reason to eat on every sunset, reason to throw a pat on his brother’s back. Oh, the stories he’d share with his brothers back home whenever he made visits, the tales that would shake the jaws off them … but he didn’t realize the dark stories he’d be weaving.

  It is half an eternity later when Grute finally appears at the door. So tall he nearly bends over to enter, his eyes show nothing but the sweet in
nocence of a boy who means all but ill for the world. Maybe his Legacy can adapt faces to his will, too. “Officer, sir.”

  “To the desk, please.”

  Grute Runlay stands by his partner Halvesand Lesser, a head over him, all the power of his wrongdoing pressing into Halves like a second gravity. He is all of the invisible men, he realizes. He turns me from a man strong to a man flat on the ground.

  “Runlay, you are a man of Guardian, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” He makes half a frown, confused. “Is there a doubt in that, sir?”

  “Your honor’s been called into question by none other than your partner, Halvesand Lesser of the ninth.” There is no unsaying it now. Obert makes no smiles, regardless of the seeming lightness of tone. “This is your chance to redeem it, Runlay. Tell me straight: are you performing your duties of protecting the innocent and putting criminals to rights, by all the codes of Guardian, by the Marshal’s vision, by King Greymyn’s wish?”

  A fog has settled over Halves’ eyes, a fog of fear and weakness and humiliation. He doesn’t want to be here, he doesn’t want to be here at all. He’d sooner run away from Guardian, run away from his duties and come home. He considers what else he can do with his life. He considers joining his mom in the muds, joining his dad in the metalshop. He will quit Guardian, he will.

  “Yes,” Grute says, his voice laced with indignance. “Of course, sir. I am doing right every day. You have read my reports, surely. It’s all there.”

  “I read every report,” confirms Obert.

  “You have seen my success. You know what my father Icon Runlay did and died for,” he reminds him. “You fought alongside him when you were a member of Guardian yourself. You know my honor. I feel … I feel pity for any who come to question it.” This last sentence takes a turn, biting at Halves, hurt in his voice. Such an actor. Such a fucking actor you are.

  Halves makes his say. “Sir, I—”

  “I knew your father,” Obert agrees, ignoring Halves.

  Grute makes a big show of sighing. “I’m sorry if anything I’ve done has brought either of you to question my integrity. I’m sorry if Halvesand Lesser of the ninth feels I’m not adequate for him, but perhaps it is he who is not adequate for me. I’ve never trusted a fool from the ninth other than his brother, Aleksand, who knows better.” Grute narrows his eyes. He almost seems to show tears. “May I be dismissed, or is there something else I may do to prove my person?”

  Obert studies him a good long while, during which Halves stares at a spot in the wall above Obert’s head, unable to meet his eyes. He seethes and trembles and sweats so bad under his arms and down the small of his back.

  “Your person is proved,” Obert decides, his face breaking into the shortest of a smile. “Grute Runlay, your honor is sound. You’re dismissed.” Grute nods stiffly. “But before you go, hand me that flask across the room. I’ve glued myself to this chair for an hour too many.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Grute turns—his dark eyes burning the side of Halvesand’s face—and goes to fetch the thing. Halves knew this would be the outcome. I’ll resign tonight, he decides. I’ll quit this place, even if I’m not allowed to see Aleks or Ennebal on my way out. Or I’ll take them with me. Yes, they’ll believe me and they will come with me.

  Then Obert is to his feet, and the knife flies from his hand so fast, Halves doesn’t even see it.

  Grute makes no yelp, the knife buried so deep its blade is gone. He reaches fruitlessly, the knife between his shoulder blades, he reaches and reaches. When he turns, Halves sees a tip poking out his front at the heart. In vain Grute twists, twists some more, then falls to the ground unkindly, cement slapping his face.

  Halves sucks in air. He can’t swallow and his eyes can’t shut. His pants grow warm and his legs turn to water. He’s pissing himself, he realizes. Even his eyelashes seem to tremble. He watches Grute writhe soundless on the ground but for the jerking of limbs against a smooth floor, and the tiny rasps from his chest as he chokes … chokes on what? His own blood? A punctured lung?

  Obert cuts the almost-silence with a steady set of words. How Halves hears them, he knows not. “I say this aloud only to ease your suffering, and because only one of you will leave this room alive. The reason you’re dying, Runlay, is because I had given you a chance to redeem yourself, and you failed to take it. A confession would’ve saved your life, see, because Halvesand Lesser of the ninth here was telling the truth. A horrible truth. I know this because it is my Legacy. If you lie to me, I know it. If you tell truth, I know it. And I wish that fact not to leave this room, as no one is aware of my Legacy. I suspect Runlay will have no trouble keeping this secret, as he’ll soon be taking it to the grave. I expect you, Lesser, to keep it too. I assure you, if you don’t, I will know.” That last part he says forcefully to Halves, who might still be pissing himself. “You were honest, Lesser.”

  Even vindicated, Halves’ lungs are tight. His legs are wet now, his pants heavy, his partner dying by his feet. Grute’s rasps have traded for a sick, gurgling sound as the blood’s likely made its way up to disrupt his breath. I am honest … though he hears it now in Obert’s voice, not his own. Honest.

  “I have your word that the secret of my Legacy will be kept?” He waits for an answer. “LESSER.”

  Halves jerks, his eyes meeting Obert. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. You have my word. Yes.”

  Grute has become still now. No secrets or lies will be uttered from those thin, ugly lips again.

  “Take it to the under-route,” says Obert, calm as a moon. “The men there will handle the rest.”

  “I-It?”

  Obert nods once, pointing. “The body, Halves. Your dead partner. It.”

  Grute’s an ‘it’ now. It. Halves puts an awkward foot forward, realizes he can’t walk properly. He slowly crouches, his hands going in so many different directions, he wonders if he even has control of them. It. The world is shivering and the air is gone from the room, sucked out like the air from Grute’s lungs … its lungs.

  “Oh, I’ll need that back,” Obert adds. “Bring back the knife, Lesser. Don’t let the men take off with it.” Halves reaches to pull it out. “No, no. Not here, fool. You’ll make a mess of the floor.”

  Halves’ shaking, shaking, shaking hand pulls back. Crouched by the … body … he looks up at Obert, feeling like a scared little boy. “I can’t do this,” he realizes. He isn’t even sure if Grute’s completely dead. He can’t bring himself to check for a pulse. The mere idea of feeling a dead heart’s silence—or worse, a dying heart’s final beats—is too much to bear. He seriously considers, if he had kept his mouth shut, maybe Grute would’ve turned around eventually … maybe bad can someday go good.

  “Truth is always heavy,” Obert responds. “Lies are heavier. Grute learned his lesson in dying, you’ll learn yours in staying alive. Every lie dies. Every truth lives forever.”

  The words give him no comfort, but Halves is suddenly the bravest person in the world. And also the most heartless. And also a man who is not a man, who cannot feel, who is emotionless. I am honest. He manages to drag Grute out of the office. The knife still in him, he pulls the body down the hallway to the long stair corridor that goes even further down, deep to the under-route.

  Grute’s head slaps against every step as Halves drags him down to the depths. There are eighty-eight steps.

  At the bottom, the brick gives to a shapeless cavern-like tunnel that curves far away in either direction. Men are tending to piles of—something—and when Halves arrives, they stop and raise their goggles. “A body,” is all Halves can say. Grute, his horrible partner who maybe didn’t deserve to die, reduced to two tiny words. Grute who had a brave dead father and a mother, who maybe had siblings. Did he have siblings? Grute who might’ve had a wife someday and a dream house and an idea or two.

  Grute who might’ve had nonconsensual sex with women at clubs under the guise of Guardian work. Grute who paid in fake gold. Grute who lied on reports, stole due cred
it, and thieved.

  When the men take the body, Halves tells them to wait, having almost forgotten. Gripping his dead partner by the arm, he pulls free the knife with a sick, meaty sound.

  He ascends the eighty-eight steps a body lighter, yet feeling twice as heavy.

  “The knife, sir.” He places it gently on Obert’s desk. “The men in the underway have it.”

  “The under-route,” he corrects him. Obert squints. “Learned a lesson in this, have you?”

  Halves feels sick, but hides it well. I think I hide it well. “Other than … that … that my words can … can kill.” He can’t get it out any plainer; his lungs are heaving dry sobs he cannot control, weak and needy.

  “Truth can kill.” Obert leans forward, laying his hands on the desk. The knife lies perfectly between them, Grute’s blood still coloring it. “But what of a lie? Lesser, remember when you said your blood was thick enough to kill anyone, even a brother?”

  “Yes,” he answers emptily, remembering that day with another stab of regret. “Yes, during one of my first trainings. I spared the life of a simulated woman who intended to kill me.”

  “She did kill you.” He doesn’t smile, but somehow his words seem to. “You’re a dead man walking, Lesser. You’re killed. She killed you because you spared her.” Obert stands. Halves’ eyes follow him. “You would not kill a brother, Lesser. That was your first lie to me.”

  Halves opens his mouth, but whether to protest or agree, he can’t say. No words come out … only a short, whimpering sigh.

  Obert goes on. “What most people don’t realize is, sometimes a lie can become the truth. And so, was the lie ever really a lie? Or was it just a truth waiting to be made? You still have time, Lesser. Remember your promises to me. Even a brother, Halvesand … Even a brother.”