Steel Sky (16 page)

Orel puts his hand on Bernie’s leg. “Time to go,” he whispers. “They know we’re here.”

“Wait!” Bernie says, “Maybe they
do
know where we are, but why should they suppose we’re not two of them?”

Orel listens to the silence, which is as absolute as the darkness.

“Because we’re not answering them,” he says.

A third cry splits the silence. This one is utterly unlike the others. It is filled with pain and outrage. And command. Other voices respond in anger. On their screens, Bernie and Orel see dozens of pale green shapes rise and pour into the tunnels.

Orel grabs hold of Bernie’s arm and tugs him out of the niche. The sharp cries and the sound of stamping feet grow louder. The air turns warm with the pressure of approaching bodies. “Run!” Orel screams. “Run!”

COMITY

“Nothing you can do,” Cadell mutters. “Just do your damn job.”

Like many of his co-workers, Cadell has taken to talking to himself to relieve the utter silence of the ghost cells.

Cadell’s desk, a sort of dark shell around him, is only one of over a hundred stretching out in all directions. Each one shimmers within its baffle, a cone of force that absorbs all sound. Like Cadell, the other ghosts are all young, eager, and learned — yet mute. Their mouths move soundlessly, endlessly.

The panel in front of him displays the parameters of the latest referendum he is working on. To either side are excerpts of related referendums. On the surface beneath them is the transcription panel displaying what little copy he has written so far. Restlessly, Cadell taps his lightpen against the panel. The baffle absorbs even the faint echoes this action would create, flattening the sound waves into inaudibility. The effect makes Cadell feel smothered in unreality.

“Image: Recite last sentence,” he commands.

“
Space, being our single most precious resource, must be used only in accordance with the best interests of the Hypogeum as a whole
,” the editorial subroutine declares. “
At a time when entire families have no place to live, the use of precious space for public theater is an affront to humanity, an insult to . . .
”

Cadell considers the sentence, wondering what the next noun should be.

“Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?”

Cadell turns and sees Thraso’s head poking through the baffle. Cadell moves his chair over to give him room, and Thraso steps in-side. There is just enough space for the two of them within the baffle.

“I suppose I am,” Cadell says. “I can’t concentrate very well today.”

“Thraso explained to Cadell that he was approaching the problem the wrong way,” Thraso says, pointing at the transcription panel. “The government didn’t really care that theatres take up space. Their real objection was that theater, in order to be interesting, was likely to be concerned with subjects like murder, incest and madness, and that the people who watched, being confused and unhappy like most people, were likely to unconsciously imitate the patterns of behavior they saw on stage. Theater, no matter how well-intentioned, inevitably instigates unrest. The interests of art and comity are intrinsically in conflict.”

Cadell nods politely, uninterested in Thraso’s ideas.

Thraso brushes the hair from his eyes. “Thraso had more to say on the subject —
see appendix
— but he had more important business to discuss. He had dropped by Cadell’s cubicle to let him know he was arranging for better accommodations for him.”

“That’s terrific. Thank you.” Cadell feels a familiar ambivalence toward Thraso. Though he is grateful, Cadell is not sure Thraso is someone he wants to be indebted to.

“Thraso thought Cadell didn’t sound very happy about it.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t concentrate very well. I’m concerned about Amarantha.”

“Of course. Thraso asked how she was.”

“Not so good. After the party she was so angry. She was pacing around the domus. Back and forth, back and forth, talking about how much she hated Second Son. There wasn’t anything I could say. I just hoped she’d get over it. But now she’s run out of anger. She just lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. At the camera on the ceiling.”

“Thraso was sorry to hear that.”

“I just wish there was something I could do, you know? I feel like I’ve failed her. It’s my job to take care of her.”

Thraso puts his hand on Cadell’s shoulder. “Thraso reminded Cadell that he already had a job.”

HORMESIS

A voice at Edward’s elbow asks, “What do you think, Edward? Love or money?”

Edward turns toward the voice. The Deathsman has slipped in through the crowd and is walking beside him. He is dressed in his civilian clothing and respirator. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he looks up at the domed Sky as he walks, smiling.

“What are you doing here?” Edward asks. “Are you following me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I happened to be nearby when I saw the crowd, that’s all. I came to see what all the fuss was about. And here I find you, once again at a scene of death. You seem drawn to death, Edward. Or perhaps it to you.”

Edward says nothing.

“So, what do you think? Love or money?”

“What are you talking about? What do you want?”

“The
breather
.” The Deathsman draws the word out, as if talking to a child. “The suicide. Why do you suppose he wanted to kill himself? Was it sorrow over a lost love, or a lost fortune?”

“How should I know?”

“Surely you can make a guess.”

“I have no idea . . . Love?”

“Perhaps.” The Deathsman nods his bony head. “My supposition is that it was money.”

“Why?”

“Because of the way he fought when the clops were trying to pull him off that ledge. People who have lost a lover can usually be talked out of suicide. They want to make a dramatic gesture to demonstrate their sorrow and despair, but deep in their hearts they know they can always find another lover. On the other hand, people who have lost their money know the loss will be much harder to compensate. They are the serious ones, the ones who fight for death’s hand.”

“I’ll take your word for it. You’re the expert.”

They are walking by a railing overlooking the lower levels. Fifty meters below, the river rushes through twisting canyons of concrete. Its roar reverberates in the hollows of the city. Edward stops and looks over the edge. He can barely see the river for all the bridges and abutments.

“I heard the man shouting something, but I couldn’t make out the words,” the Deathsman says, raising his voice to be heard over the reverberation. “What was he saying?”

“Nothing. It was just babble. He was hallucinating.”

“But what were his words? Do you remember?”

“Not really. Does it matter?”

“I like to know a man’s last words. You could say I collect them, the way other men collect ancient coins.”

Edward lowers his head, thinking. “Something about a river, something about changing the world. He wasn’t making any sense. In the later stages of fumatory poisoning, the mind disintegrates. You start to free-associate. And the less sense you make, the more emphatic you are about it.”

“All the better. The best epitaphs always have a touch of the enigmatic.”

“Sorry. I can’t help you.”

“A pity . . . There are so many lost opportunities in this business.”

“That
is
your business. Losing opportunities.”

“Touché.” The Deathsman’s enigmatic half smile does not change. He continues looking down at the river.

“If you were watching, then you could have helped me. We could have saved that man.”

“As you say, that’s not my job. Besides, what could we have done?”

“I’ve been experimenting with treatments for fumatory poisoning. It’s just a theory now, but I’ve developed compounds that take advantage of hormesis, the temporary acceleration of metabolism accompanying advanced cases. We could have at least tried.”

“Everyone has their own path to follow, Edward. Even if you don’t approve of it. Even if it leads to self-destruction. That man wanted to die. He was willing to suffer great pain and humiliation to do it. In some ways, he was lucky. He chose his own fate.”

Edward leans forward against the railing. A fine mist rises from the rushing river below. Water droplets collect on the hairs on the back of his hands. “That’s no excuse for giving up,” he says. “We all live by someone else’s rules, whether we know it or not.”

“Perhaps.” The Deathsman’s voice drops an octave, becoming more intimate. “But you’ve never accepted it, have you, Edward? You’ve never stopped trying to change the rules. You don’t know what it feels like to lose hope.”

“No?” Edward says. The dull roar from below is creeping into his head. He feels the pressure between his ears. “Sometimes I feel like I lost hope a long time ago. I just forgot how to stop fighting. It’s a bad habit, trying to make things better.”

The Deathsman purses his lips and looks down. “You know,” he says softly, “I’ve looked at your record. I know about your mother.”

Edward straightens, feeling his blood rise. “What are you talking about?”

The Deathsman watches the river, his face unreadable. “I know who you were trying to save today. I know who you were trying to save the day we met. But it’s too late to save her, isn’t it?”

“Don’t try to analyze me,” Edward snaps. “You don’t know anything about me.”

The Deathsman’s unpleasant face is unperturbed by Edward’s anger. His dark eyes regard Edward coolly through drooping lids. “I know that you should have let us come for her sooner.”

Without thinking, Edward lashes out with both hands, grabbing the Deathsman’s coverup just below the collar. “What makes you think you have the right . . .”

The Deathsman raises one eyebrow, but makes no move to defend himself. “The Brotherhood could have saved you both a lot of pain,” he says.

Edward pushes the Deathsman up against the railing. As he tightens his grip, he feels chest hairs beneath the coverup pull loose from their follicles. The Deathsman is slight, perhaps seventy kilos at most. It would be easy to push him over the railing. Edward can almost picture it — the Deathsman’s rag doll body bouncing off walkways on its way down to the river. A single push could do it. Edward would love to see the smarmy bastard lose his composure, feel a little fear.

“That’s quite a grip, Doctor,” the Deathsman says, his yellow teeth showing in a crooked smile. “You’re in good shape for a lab man.” Suddenly all the anger drains out of him, and Edward feels the world snap back into place. Once again he is only a middle-aged man losing his temper in public, attracting the stares of strangers. His knuckles twinge as he releases his hold on the Deathsman. He hadn’t realized how tightly he was gripping.

“I’m sorry . . .” he says quietly. “I don’t know what came over me. But you shouldn’t have said what you said.”

“Obviously not. In fact, I should be the one to apologize, not you.” The Deathsman makes a shallow bow. “It was not my intention to offend.”

Edward is not listening. His hands are shaking, but his headache is gone. His whole body tingles. All around him, he sees, the Sun is casting tiny rainbows in the mist.

“I can see that now is not the best time,” the Deathsman says, taking a step backward. “We’ll have to continue our conversation later.”

Edward looks him in the eye. “I don’t want to ever see you again.”

“I think you do.” The Deathsman smiles and disappears into the crowd.

POSSIBLE FUTURES

Bernie and Orel race headlong down the tunnels, tripping over outcroppings of rock and scraping their helmets against the low, uneven ceilings. Very quickly they feel their muscles burn, their energy begin to flag. They are not used to this sort of sustained exercise, and their gear is weighing them down.

“We’ll never outrun them,” Bernie gasps as he runs.

Orel cracks a flare and throws it behind them. A swarm of Rats draw up short in front of the sputtering torch, afraid to come near it. Despite his goggles, Orel would swear he can see a dozen sets of long, angry teeth and tiny, black eyes lit by the magenta glow. The Rats squeal and scurry backward, seeking other passages to outflank their prey.

Orel pushes Bernie in front of him. “Which way?”

Bernie touches a hand to his helmet, consulting the map in his head. “Uh . . . this way!”

They continue running along a downhill pitch. Orel loses his balance on the slime-covered stone and slams against a boulder at the bottom. His arm goes numb from the impact. Bernie cannot stop his headlong rush. He trips over Orel and runs into the cavern wall, helmet ringing like a bell as it bounces off the stone.

Orel staggers to his feet and helps Bernie up. “Are you okay?”

Bernie nods, feeling the dent in his helmet. “I really hate this,” he says.