Beyond Oblivion by Daryl Banner

Author:Daryl Banner [Banner, Daryl]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Frozenfyre Publishing
Published: 2018-12-30T18:30:00+00:00

0280 Halvesand

The hum of the chrome caravan is soothing as they glide down the streets of the eleventh. Other than the front windshield, two long slits of glass run along either side of the cabin, showing the buildings race past them as they go. For the longest time, all Halves hears is the clean, gentle hum.

“The Lifted do have their gifts,” murmurs one among his crew, a woman called Bee with long, straight hair and deep-set hooded eyes. She was among the crew of Guardian tasked with transferring his mother from the headquarters in the sixth to Eleven Wings.

“What? You mean this chrome?” asks the boy by Halvesand’s side, who is, against all measure of reason, the fourth crew member handpicked by Lead Officer Forrest. He looks twelve, he has arms like half-cooked noodles, and can’t seem to hold a gun without his hands trembling. No matter Halves’ opinions, the boy was also one of the ones who escorted his mother safely from the sixth. His name is Cope. “Yeah, chromes are pretty smooth. A lot smoother than the likes of slum vehicles.”

“Smooth as air,” Bee agrees. “Like we’re floating.”

“Like we’re … lifted.” Cope smirks. “Lifted. Get it?”

Bee rolls her eyes and turns back toward the windshield where she was watching. The three of them sit on long bench-seats that line either side of the cabin. Only one control chair is at the nose of the vehicle, operated by Forrest herself, who keeps her opinions out of the conversation completely, her full focus on the road. She stops for clusters of folk crossing the street, though most keep well out of the way, quite accustomed to chrome caravans and freight vehicles passing down this very lane. A few ignore the vehicle. Some show disgust on their faces, assuming them to be Sanctum or Lifted folk traveling through the eleventh. One pair of kids even take to throwing their shoes at the caravan, both attempts of which miss entirely, or else the chrome has a defense mechanism that evades projectiles somehow. Despite all his studying in the dormitories and the Guardian labs, Halvesand still finds himself sorely lacking in understanding how Lifted tech actually works.

“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.

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