Outlier: Rebellion (18 page)

Remember why,
Wick tells himself.
Remember why. A world without a screaming King, remember why. We’re going to wake the world.

The train pulls 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 midair, 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.

He’s certain no one can hear him. “Arrow, someone! Help!”

When he steps over another chunk of fallen debris, his eyes are caught by a boy his age on the ground. The boy looks up, their eyes meet, and Wick stops short.

He is the most beautiful person Wick has ever seen.

There is quite suddenly nothing else in the world. No hellfire. No screams. The stunning boy’s Sanctum outfit hugs a tight, muscular form … truly, a boy of the sky … and his face is like something cut from gem, a perfection Wick couldn’t match in his hottest dreams.

And that coming from Wick, the only person in the world who
can
dream.

“Please!” cries the boy, scrambling to get to his feet, but falling twice to the ground. Blood smears his beautiful face, his two bright eyes begging him. “Help me! I’m—My name is Ath—Athan … I’m Athan and—and I’m … I think I’ve broken my … my …”

Wick stumbles suddenly, rocked by a loud and heavy thing that lands just behind him, and he falls into the boy, elbow slamming hard against the boy’s cheek. Now he’s lying on top of him, face to beautiful face, inexorably close, breath-close … except the Sanctum boy’s no longer conscious. Knocked out and helpless, his striking face lies inches from Wick’s. Even in this wicked circumstance, Wick suddenly can’t pull his eyes away from the discovery of the Sanctum boy’s plush, welcome lips.
What was your name again?—You’d only just said it …

His hand near the boy’s arm, he suddenly finds his hand trailing up, up, up to the boy’s shoulder.
What am I doing?
The world could kill them both at any moment, and he chooses to lay hands instead. Smoke and red light and terror pass around and through and above them, shadows playing across the boy’s face, and nothing can touch its beauty … except Wick. Wick can touch all he dares.

I dreamed you,
he realizes.
I dreamed you and you’re here.

Fireballs land nearby, and he risks a hand on the boy’s soft cheek.
I dreamed you. Who are you?
His heart racing, he can’t tell if his breath quickens because the flames around him are hungry, or because his hand is exploring the face of the most beautiful boy in all of Atlas.

And with the boy unconscious, eyes shut, mouth parted … it’s almost like the boy sleeps, just like he does. This draws a smile on Wick’s face.
What do you dream of, Sanctum boy?
He notices a cut on the boy’s forehead. It’s bleeding badly.

“WICK,” squawks the earpiece, sobering him in an instant. The handsome dream-boy in his arms, Wick finds the story of Rone’s dad suddenly twisting his stomach into a nasty decision of do or don’t. Fire has taken hold of the debris and it dances forth, threatening to ignite Wick with it. If he leaves the boy, the boy will burn—cooked in the debris, along with countless others who have been crushed already, and they’ll share an eternal bed. If he tries to save him, they both may cook. Wick realizes how sickeningly lucky he’s been so far.
But I’m not yet out of harm’s unrelenting way
.

He makes a decision, unsure what force within has swayed him. Gripping the boy’s firm, taut body—
how cruel to notice such things at a time like this
—he drags the fine-faced beauty like a sack of meat across the threshold of the square. He doesn’t let himself stop to rest until he and the boy break free of the havoc, every muscle in his body tortured to every end.

Only now does he realize he saw none of his comrades. Terrible thoughts flood him.
Please, please let them be safe. Oh, if I went for saving this Privileged, only to lose my friends …
Only now is a hand at last free to press into the earpiece, where he chokes even more words he’s certain they can’t hear. “Help, please. I’m out … Wick, Wick is out … and I need help.”

And what a surprise, but not six minutes later, help arrives in the form of Rone, Juston, Adamant, and Yellow, all come to carry Wick and his rescued.

The Noodle Shop closed for the night, they pour into the bottom floor, shoving tables away to make room for the wounded. Wick is ushered to a nearby booth where, to his great and immeasurable relief, he discovers that not a soul of theirs was lost: Victra and Cintha have gotten back safely. Only Victra has a deep slice down her thigh, looked at by a carefully-tending and unblemished Cintha. From the look on Victra’s face, she’s less in pain than she is just terribly annoyed. Cintha hasn’t a mark on her but a small scrape along her forehead. So, so lucky they were …