Outlier: Rebellion

by Daryl Banner

  As he sits in class today, staring at the empty desks of Tide and Rone, he wonders how many days it’s been. Ever since he’s returned home, he sleeps so much and spends his every minute home enjoying Athan’s attention that he’s lost track of days … Sometimes, it feels like Rain never existed, that it was just another dream of his … until he reminds himself of Athan. Indeed, Athan is no dream. Wick knows dreams quite well; when you run a slow tongue along the lips of a dream, it does not lick back.

  Wick pushes his fists into his lap. He’s given himself a mid-class erection with just the thought of Athan. Really, can’t I control myself better than this? He’s so much to worry about, so much to feel awful about, so much to fear … and Athan wipes it all away.

  During lunch hour, he sits at the empty table that would occupy Link, were he here. Whatever’s come of my little brother? Wick already assumes the worst, embittered with his own sick view of the world. Link has likely gone into the nights, involved himself with some gang, and gotten killed. They will never find his body. They’ll never know how it happened or why. If it was for some jealous rage, or because he’d overstepped himself, or because he spoke back to the wrong person. He always had a habit of speaking back when he ought not to. It could’ve been some drug deal, some exchange of pills or needles or chemical.

  Suddenly, he realizes he can’t stand not knowing the fate of his Rain friends. He has to find out … But I’ll do it with care.

  Wick finds the school phone attached to the outer wall near a breaker box, relieved to find the line is operable today, as it so often isn’t. Recalling the number from the times Rone made use of it, he picks up the phone with five minutes left of his lunch break—not having eaten a thing—and calls the Noodle Shop. After six long rings, one of the cooks answers. Wick puts in his order: “I’d like … an order of S-Sanctum heads, please. Boiled, rather. Boiled Sanctum heads.” There is a long silence, and Wick worries that he’d gotten it wrong. Was it baked Sanctum heads? Stewed heads?

  He hears Rone. “Hello?”

  “Hey! Wow, hey! It’s Wick. This sucks without you here.”

  “Where?”

  “School.” He looks about the yard and peers around the corner of the building, ensuring no one’s nearby. “I haven’t heard from you guys or seen you. Gan—Professor Frey told me I had to stay home to … look after my friend. Rone, tell me what’s up.”

  He sighs into the phone, making it sound like a mess of static and frustration. “I just can’t, man. I just …” He grows silent.

  Now Wick’s really worried. “Rone, tell me. Please.”

  “It’s …” His voice grows faint, shaky. It takes Wick a minute to realize Rone has started to cry. “It’s … my sister.”

  “Cintha? What about Cintha?”

  “They took her.”

  Wick’s heart speeds up so fast, he feels it near to burst from his neck. “G-Guardian? … What do you mean they took her?”

  “One of them said she was at the building, near the Core … The Guardian said he recognized her. Then Cinth, she … she started to run. She should not have run. She should’ve played it off, lied, done a million things we’d trained to do before.” Rone sighs, his choked sobs are so agonizing in the phone. Wick belatedly realizes he’s never heard Rone cry. “I wasn’t even there. Arrow told me. And then Arrow admitted to me that she tore into the building when they went on that mission. He couldn’t stop her. She went in herself to find the Weapon. I punched Arrow in the face right there. I think I broke a nail. He’s already forgiven me, but I’ll never forgive myself, not for letting my sister get caught.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Wick tries to reason feebly through the static-ridden line. He’s well aware that he’s now two minutes late getting back to class. “Rone, we have to meet up. Please. We have to talk about this.”

  “Wick, fuck, she was my family,” he goes on, sobbing, his voice breaking through half his words, “oh, Gods, fuck, she was all I had left. ALL I HAD LEFT! Our parents are dead, Wick, we’ve been living alone. I never told anyone that, not ever. After my dad was arrested and taken away forever, way back when we were kids, my mom lost it … she lost it and drank herself dead. Sanctum doesn’t know that, or else we’d be put in an orphanage. Now I’m alone, Wick, I’m all fucking alone.”

  “No, you’re not. You have me. You’ll always have me. You have everyone else … Arrow, Yellow, all of us. You have Victra. Athan’s got your back too. C’mon, Rone. Meet with me, please.”

  “I can’t. Wick, you need to—” He chokes, giving to a fit of sobs, then sniffling it away and finishing in half a groan: “You need to keep Athan safe and far away. Don’t come back. Please.”

  “Rone …”

  “I love you, man. Please don’t come back.”

  The line cuts out. Wick stares at the phone, the world a blur.

  He staggers back to class and earns a remark from Professor Frey about tardiness as he makes his way to his seat, though he admittedly didn’t hear a word of it. Every last speck of his hope and happiness was just shot down. Cintha … They have Cintha. He steels his face and stares at the head of the person in front of him, and he doesn’t see anything. His mind a fog, his eyes a storm, he sees and hears nothing of today’s lesson. Link is gone. He only hears his own breathing, and even that doesn’t make sense to him. Dad’s gone. Everything and everyone.

  When he gets home, he finds Athan in his tiny room leaning against the window his father long-ago built him, reading. Athan looks up at once, a smile breaking across his face. Wick decides not to tell him the news. Call me selfish. Call me cruel. I’m just tired of feeling things. He curls up next to Athan, nuzzling his armpit, and the day drifts away before he even bothers with dinner. I don’t want to wake the world any longer. Let it sleep. Let it fucking sleep.

  0062 Ruena

  The little boy Sedge is dancing in her room again. He wears all her prettiest. He drapes himself in all her longest. He throws about his neck all her silkiest. Then, donned in all the colors of the world, he prances around and sings at the top of his little soprano lungs, tunes with notes that only little puppies can hear.

  “I want to hear the Ancient music again,” he begs, dancing on the cushions of her couch and giggling. “Please, please, please.”

  Ruena sighs, the book in her hand going limp at the tempting idea. But I think the slums below don’t deserve to have their power robbed of them for another day. “You know what happened last time, Sedge. I can’t risk it again.”

  “Small price for music so beautiful,” he half-sings, half-says, frolicking through her great hall, the sound of clacking shoes echoing up to the high, high ceiling. The music was quite beautiful …

  It’s always been impossible to keep Sedge from entering the Palace, even as absurdly guarded as it is. His Legacy makes it easy for him to squeeze into tight places. Even a cracked-open window. Even blades of grass in the lawn can hide him as he finds his way into her house and beyond the watchful eye of tens and twenties of paid guards. One of the most flexible Morphs she’s ever known, and by the creepy Legacist Impis’s hand, she’s heard of plenty.

  He stops dancing at once, rushing up to the chair she’s in. “When you become Queen,” he says quite seriously, his voice still three octaves higher than hers, “can I be your prince? I’ll do your every bidding, I will. I’ll slay any who stand in your way.”

  “You have it all wrong.” She returns to her book.

  “I could be your Marshal of Protection.”

  “There is no such Marshal.” She laughs. What else can the boy claim to be? “Sedge, that horrible tower is one of the loneliest and most miserable places to be in all of Atlas, and I’m not very fond of the Marshals for company either. Well … except perhaps Janlord, but that’s because he’s kind-hearted and honest.”

  “I’m kind-hearted and honest,” he goes on, pleading.

  “That’s because you’re still a boy. Give it some years, let the world bleed it all out of you.
” Studying the anxious, puppy-like face on him that practically pants between his many exclamations, she honestly wonders how he’ll change as he grows up. It’s so odd, not to be able to even imagine it. She simply can’t see him wearing his adulthood. Will he still insist to wear her silks and high heels, worshipping every little insignificant thing about her until even her every spark feels as valuable as a chest full of perfect pearls?

  There is a visitor at the Palace door. When the gates are drawn open, she finds Janlord looking rather grave.

  “Say it,” she murmurs, expecting the worst.

  “He’s fallen ill,” he explains, “again. But this time, I fear it is not fast improving. Ruena … I think it’s time. He requests to speak with you. I’m here to take you to Cloud Tower.”

  Sedge is already there, squinting suspiciously at the Marshal of Peace. “Where are you taking us?” he asks defiantly.

  “Me.” Ruena gives Sedge an irritated smirk. “He’s taking me, and you must go home now.”

  “I’ll protect you!” He throws himself into a stance, wielding some mighty, imaginary weapon. “I can hold a sword!”

  “We’ll see if you’re still holding it in a few years.” Ruena draws a ruby-colored cloak around her that glimmers with the passion of fire, throws a silk of purple over her hair, then tells the guards she’s ready. Following Janlord and his own party, Sedge’s bold assertions fade behind them as they proceed to Cloud Keep.

  The night sky is a pox of demon-white stars and the air in the Cloud Keep smells of loathing. When she braves the steps of the ever-too-tall Cloud Tower, she feels her feet gain weight with her every step. Sluggish by the time she reaches the door to the King’s Chambers, she gives an honest thought to whether she wants to see what’s on the other side.

  Janlord is with me. Everything is going to be fine. She lets herself inside. The aroma of the room should be death, but all she smells are the fresh flowers from the Greens lined along the balcony, the lazy night breeze bringing the scent into the room. Her grandfather Greymyn has blankets pulled up to his chin, lying in the bed and wheezing. When she draws close, that’s when she sees the blood about his whole mouth. The price of your screams, she thinks dolefully, pained by the sight.

  A suited man steps from the shadows, emblem of Sanctum worn on his breast. He is Ironby, the speaker and representative of the Court of Elders. He has no emotion and his every word carries the droll of a person joyless, a man of only duties, a robot of flesh.

  Ironby lifts a tomb to his chest. “The Court and Council must make their words to Ruena Netheris, in the presence of the King, Greymyn Netheris, and the Marshals present, of which we only keep the Lord of Peace Janlord. The Court speaks and the heir of Atlas listens, all others to pay a witness’s duty.”

  “Witnessing,” says Janlord flatly.

  Ironby splits the tomb’s pages, then reads in nauseating monotone. “The King of Atlas, Greymyn Netheris, father to Kael Netheris, married by Eddis Thrin of Prone Mirand and Aurole Thrin, thereby Kael Mirand-Thrin Netheris, missing, assumed deceased, their only child Eddison Netheris, also deceased. The King of Atlas, Greymyn Netheris, also father to June Netheris, married by Ever Almont of Unity Sunsong and Euge Almont, survived by one daughter, Ruena Almont-Sunsong Netheris.”

  Her head spins from all the names. She knows them, each and every one, from her dead cousin Eddison to her dead parents June and Ever to her missing-and-presumed-dead aunt. Ironby continues the droll, naming Ruena, by extension of all the names of the deceased, the rightful heir of Atlas.

  “And so the words have been made, witnessed, and known. The Court will keep hold and honor the procession of throne, in the chance of the King’s untimely passing.”

  “Oh,” croaks the King from his sweaty bed. “Quite timely, in fact. Quite tiiiiimely.” And with half a chuckle and half a death rattle, he makes awful noises.

  Ironby humbly nods, then retreats back into the shadows.

  When she looks on her King, Ruena finds she is nothing without her humor. “If you dare think you’re leaving me that ugly throne just yet,” she says to her grandfather, “I’ll put an electric charge in you so fast you’ll wake right back to life.”

  The King laughs, though his effort is sad and the sound is unsettling and grotesque. “Too bad,” he mutters, not bothering to even try and clear his unclearable throat. “I fear I’m to find my first sleep, whether you liiiike it or not. I’m ever tired, Ruena.” His frog eyes move from person to person in the room. The phlegm comes up and bothers his voice as he says, “I must … tell you something, Ruuuuena. Something only you … the heir of Atlas, may know. Clear … Clear the room.”

  At once, the occupants of the room depart. Janlord remains, and the King lifts his chin to say, “Even youuuu, Peacemaker.”

  Ruena frowns. “Even Janlord?”

  The Marshal of Peace makes a gentle nod and says, “It is no matter. A King deserves time with his granddaughter alone. I will be outside.” He nods to Ruena, bows to the King, then leaves the room.

  After the door has shut and they are alone, she waits patiently.

  The King reaches both his hands and spreads his beard apart like a curtain, his frail, leathery hands quavering.

  “The Facility is a project your own mother, Lady June prior heir of Atlas, began. Your own father, even your ever-sweet Lady Kael Mirand-Thrin did not know of it, when they were alive.” He unsuccessfully clears the gravel from his throat, then goes on, careless. “Your mother and I conducted the great work in the Facility. The only ones privy to its existence are the researchers. Not even the Marshals. Janlord, for all his compassion, is too weak to appreciate the necessity of the Facility, or why the work must go on after I have long expired … but you will be Queen soon, dear Ruena, and you will seeeeee its necessity.” He reaches for her hand, paying no mind to the bewildered expression on her face. “There is a necessity in studying the origins of Legacies and how they can be manipulated, extracted, enhanced, dehanced … Oh, Ruena, the city has turned and turned and turned, and every time it’s at the hands of an Outlier who turns up from the slums. The balance is so delicate, the uphold of a King over his people. Do you realize how many Kings were overturned just by a simple man, a simple woman, with a cleverer Legacy? Outliers are dangerous. Anyone with such power is dangerous. There are no good hearts left, none, and anyone with such power will wield it with the darkest parts of their soul. It is the only part of one’s soul with which great power can be held. This isn’t pessimism, this is human hunger … humanity at its best and its very, very worst.”

  There are good hearts. But regardless of her feelings toward the King’s coldblooded, secret war against Outliers, she cannot help but feel a part of him is absolutely right. I am not safe with an Outlier who covets the throne. No amount of kindness can coax a heart from darkness. “It’s too bad you have so much life still left in you.” She smirks, humor in her eyes. “Though significant and heavy, these are not your dying words. You and I both know that.”

  He laughs, though it sounds more like the creaks of hinges to some ancient door. “Yes, you’re right. I know … The Kingship is kind. The Kingship is dramatic.” He gives another chuckle, or perhaps a gag. “Just another of my bleeding mouths. These near-death nights, they give me such clarity. But I know one of them will be my last.” His eyes become murky as storm clouds. “Granddaughter, I must warn you of one last thing.”

  Ruena prepares herself, pulling back her hair and leaning forward on the bed to listen as his voice draws quiet.

  “Impis.” The name comes out in a gurgled, revolting grunt, but Ruena understands it. “He is the key to your safety. Marshal of Legacy, he has his fingers first in all the powers of Atlas, all at his disposal. He is your key to finding the Outliers and keeping yourself safe … and alive. The Lord’s Garden fell by the hand of a person with a formidable power, and it is not a power held by the two boys we threw into the Combs. Impis will help you find this person, but do not deceive yourself; I
mpis himself is a force that must be managed. The two boys in the Combs, they still may serve quite a purpose yet in snuffing out our little slum rebellion. Those two boys … An example must be set … A fear must be made to ripple over the slums … The boys cannot symbolize the power of the slums, they must symbolize the price of rebellion.”

  Ruena understands what he means, but the image of Dran, naked and calm and witty of tongue, sends a jostling of electricity down her hair. It may literally have done just that. Surely the boys may serve a better purpose … than that. Her eyes grow cold. Her fingers grow warm with energy, pulsing energy, buzzing energy. What does Queen Ruena do?

  She kisses her grandfather on the brow. Her lips are met with a clammy sheen of sweat. “I’ll see you on tomorrow’s throne.”

  Outside the King’s private chambers, Janlord wears a look of concern. “Is all well? Has the King—? Have you—?”

  “We still have a King yet,” she mutters, strolling by his side as they make the slow descent down the smooth, chrome steps of Cloud Tower, “and he wishes me to rule with a strong hand.”

  “Yes,” Janlord agrees, his breath soured by mounting anxiety in his stomach. “Yes, strong hands have their purpose. Ruena, promise me that nothing rash will come of whatever he’s told you. Please. The Queenship is just as kind, just as good as the King’s. Don’t let his ambitions—”

  “It should be expected of you to say this,” she says, taking care with her every ringing step that her heel doesn’t give beneath her, that she does not fall down these steely stairs that so graciously support her. How my legs are killing me—These heels were a very stupid choice, and I blame Sedge. “You are, after all, the Marshal of Peace, and your duty of maintaining the peace has never been more vital.”