Steel Sky

by Andrew C. Murphy

  Cadell picks himself up off the floor and grabs a respirator dropped during the panic. He holds it to his face. The gauge on the side indicates that the percentage of poisonous gasses in the vast room never even came close to dangerous levels.

  The registers rattle and hiss as clean air is pumped into the Discroom. The last remnants of the crowd continue to push through the doors. The webbing snaps shut after each one with a loud pop!

  The floor is littered with spilled drinks, overturned chairs and tables, ripped clothing, discarded personal effects, and here and there a body. Some of the bodies are still breathing, some are not. Cadell hobbles through the wreckage, looking for Amarantha. Someone stepped on his foot during the rush; pain shoots up his leg with every step. He can’t tell if anything is broken or not.

  Thraso drops down from his perch. “Quite a scene, eh, Cadell?” he calls, momentarily forgetting his affectation.

  Cadell nods absently and continues walking, heading in the direction where he last saw Amarantha. After a while, he finds her. The corridor is empty except for the three bodies of the Orcus servants. Amarantha is sitting on the floor in a corner, her arms around her knees. She is wrapped in Second Son’s pinioned cape.

  At first she doesn’t even notice him. When he speaks her name, she jumps, staring at him with eyes that are red, but dry. As he kneels beside her, she collapses against him, wordlessly burying herself in his arms. He holds her tight, stroking her hair and feeling the warmth of her breath on his chest, instinctively knowing he should ask no questions.

  LEGEND

  The Atrium is the largest enclosed space in the Hypogeum. A ribbed glass roof stretches from one row of rooftops to another. In the wide thoroughfare below, people are milling about — talking, buying or selling from one of the merchant carts, engaging in political dialogue, or listening to tales of adventure that have survived, however warped, from the old world.

  The largest crowd is gathered around a white-haired man, naked but for a loincloth, who balances precariously on a bench, waving his scrawny arms. He speaks tirelessly, pausing only to extend his ident to accept donations. The Revelator, as he is known, is the most popular speaker in the Hypogeum.

  “And the Time Barons sat in richly decorated rooms in their clocktower fortress . . .” Despite the apparent weakness of his frame, the Revelator preaches in a voice like the roar of a great river. “And they laughed and drank while, outside, people starved and fires burned.”

  Above him, in the girders, the Winnower stops to listen to the familiar fable.

  “And the clocktower struck. And the Barons were sore amazed, for they had not declared the hour. And they ran to and fro inside the tower trying to silence the bells. They were blinded with rage, for they believed they had achieved a mastery no men had ever before possessed: they thought they were the masters of time, not it of them. But try as they might, they could not silence the bells. And the clock continued to strike, signaling the end of their day, and the dawn of a new era.

  “And suddenly among them was the Winnower, with the face of a man long dead and the claws of a demon. He came like a thief in the night, unannounced, uninvited, to their innermost sanctuary. And as he walked among them their eyes closed, their hearts stopped, and they fell in tangled piles upon the cold marble floors.

  “And the locks burst open at his touch, and he offered the people entrance, taking from their mouths the bitterness of justice long denied and returning to them the sweetness of bloody vengeance.

  “And the people rose up against the Time Barons. And they slaughtered the men in the clocktower, whether they worked or slept, whether they fought for their lives or pleaded for mercy. All were slaughtered, yes, even the women and children. And their blood painted the walls. And their screams filled the ruined corridors. And the dynamos failed, and the lights flickered out. And the ivory clocktower was razed to its foundations. And the Sky was stained black with the smoke of a thousand fires.

  “And the horror began.”

  A man’s philosophy is the surest way to judge his character. Few men are dedicated in this respect — most switch continuously from one level of awareness to another, depending on which is most convenient at the moment — but men who are primarily consistent, who apprehend the world in a certain way and act accordingly, these are the ones who determine the course of human history, with flickers of support or opposition echoing them in the inconstant souls of others.

  Renata Penn (Year 297)

  THIRTEEN

  A single beam of light slices down through the darkness to strike the man below, making the glossy fabric of his coverup shine with the intensity of a magnesium flare. The beam is so fine that it does not touch the chair on which he is sitting or illuminate the room around him in any way. His cheekbones, nose and eyebrows cast long shadows down his face. He prefers the room dark this way.

  “Thirteen men dead now,” he says. “Funny, it doesn’t sound like that many when I say it out loud.”

  “Only twelve.” A woman’s voice comes from somewhere over his shoulder. “One of the Orcus servants is permanently disfigured and blind in one eye, but otherwise healthy.”

  The man does not turn his head. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

  “I’m only being precise. I thought you appreciated precision.”

  The man puts his head in his hands, so that only disparate pieces of him are visible in the spotlight. “I just wish there was an easier way . . .”

  “There is. You can stop at any time.”

  “Don’t mock me. It’s gone too far for that.”

  “There would be repercussions, it’s true. Vast repercussions. But they are not your concern. You have no obligation to bear this burden.”

  “No? Who would take my place if I quit?”

  “All I’m saying is that you have a choice. Whichever choice you make, you must make it wholeheartedly. If you are to be a man, throw away the armor and go back to your life, never looking back. If you are to be the Winnower, summon up the rage of the city until you feel it like a fever in your blood. There can be no half measures.”

  The man inhales through his teeth. “You’re right. Of course. It’s just that . . . I’m so tired . . .”

  “Beware of self-pity, my friend. It will destroy you.”

  PINKY

  Second Son sits in his room and stares out the window-wall. He sits slumped forward, wincing every time he shifts his weight. He cannot lean back for fear that he will reopen the welts across his back. The scars are two days old, but still deep. His father made the marks in Second Son’s back with a cane the day after the party. As Orcus brought down each stroke, his face was deep red with rage and shame, his breath hot and labored on the back of Second Son’s neck. The cause of his father’s anger was not that Second Son had broken the law, nor even that he had disrupted the party, but that he had been so careless as to have been caught. For a member of the Orcus family to have been exposed so ignominiously was more than his father could bear.

  “Excuse me, sir.” Second Son’s thoughts are interrupted by the voice of Image, or rather, one of its domestic subroutines. The feminine voice, more familiar and comforting than any of his own family’s voices, issues from a speaker set low in the curved wall.

  “What is it?” Second Son asks, closing his eyes. He wants only to be left alone.

  “There’s someone at the door.”

  Second Son sighs. The subroutines aren’t very bright. “Who,” he asks, “is at the door?”

  “Your sister, Second Daughter.”

  “Let her in.”

  The door slides open and Second Daughter walks in. She is fourteen years old, with a round face and straight, brown hair. Like Second Son, she is shorter and plumper than average. These qualities, as Second Son has observed before, look better on a girl than on a boy. In fact, Second Daughter might be considered pretty, if not for the way she suffered in comparison to Dancer.

  “Hello, Pinky,” Second Son says.

/>   Pinky smiles, a small cautious smile. Her nickname was given to her not for her complexion, Second Son suspects, but for the fact that she — like the finger — is pleasant to have around, but not altogether necessary.

  She moves in that quick, uncomplicated way she has, and leans against Second Son’s desk. She looks at him from under her bangs, Second to Second. “Father still won’t come out of the Sensorium,” she says. “He’s pretty mad about what happened at the party.”

  “That’s clear enough,” Second Son replies. “The question is, is he still angry at me?”

  “I don’t know. He was caught by surprise. He doesn’t like that.”

  “Is the wedding still on?”

  Pinky nods. “Sorry. You’re not looking forward to marrying her, are you?”

  “I’d rather have my testicles cut off.” He smiles grimly. “Hell, she probably would, too.”

  Pinky laughs, and the clear plastic table creaks ominously under her weight. Null-class aesthetics require all furniture in the Chandelier to be designed in thin, transparent curves. Beautiful, but not very sturdy.

  “Maybe you won’t have to marry her,” she says. “Maybe she’ll have an accident.”

  “What?” Alarmed, Second Son starts to rise, but his back warns him to stay where he is. “Why do you say that?”

  Pinky’s smile disappears. “No reason. I was just talking, trying to make you feel better.”

  “Well, don’t. Don’t say something like that. Not even as a joke.”

  “Sorry.” Pinky looks around, nonplussed. “I was just thinking it would be nice, is all. If you didn’t have to marry her.”

  “But I do. So there’s no point thinking otherwise.”

  Pinky stands and moves closer to him. “Don’t you ever think about the way you’d like things to be? Just once or twice, lie in bed and roll the thoughts around in your head, just to see what they look like?”

  “No. I stopped doing anything like that a long time ago.”

  “I do it. I do it all the time.” She is standing right next to him now, and Second Son leans forward to rest his forehead against her stomach. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could be married?” she says. “The way it was supposed to be?”

  Second Son nods, feeling the smooth, gray cloth of her dress against his cheek. Her scent is simple, clean, and comforting.

  “They owe us that much,” Pinky says, running her hand down the back of his smooth head. “All you have to do is say, ‘No.’ All you have to do is tell Father you won’t marry her.”

  Second Son lets his head rest against her stomach for a moment longer. Then he grabs hold of her wrist and pulls himself to his feet. A ripping pain in his back tells him he has moved too quickly. He stumbles forward, ignoring the pain. He stands in front of the window, his feet planted wide, in imitation of his father. He feels a tear of blood slide down his spine.

  “No,” he says finally, his voice bitter and low. “I will not forfeit my position. I can make it without Stone, and I can make it without you. I can control Dancer myself. I’ve grown since Stone died. I can be her master as well as he could. Maybe better.”

  “No one can control her. She’ll crush you.”

  “No. I can handle her. You’ll see,” Second Son says, without turning. “Everything is laid out before me. I only have to grasp it.”

  Pinky walks toward him. Her eyes are cast down, but her voice is steady. “If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for me. Do you want me to be forced to marry outside the family?”

  “Neither you nor any member of this family will ever marry into a lesser house. It hasn’t been done in a hundred years.”

  “But surely you can’t intend for me to become an old maid?” Her voice trembles just a little with anger or sorrow, Second Son cannot tell which.

  He turns and looks at her steadily. “Of course not, Pinky. I would never do that to you. When Dancer and I have sons you can marry one of them.”

  Pinky’s hand, which had been about to touch his shoulder, drops to her side. It balls into a plump fist. She stands with her head bowed and her eyes closed.

  Second Son touches her chin to raise her head. He brushes the hair away from her eyes and regards her tenderly. “Don’t worry, Pinky,” he whispers. “I’ll always take care of you.”

  BREATHER

  Yawning, Edward Penn steps out of his building onto a walk-way. The city around him is alive, as always, with the perpetual movement of citizens. Some are in the middle of their days, some are relaxing after work, and some — like Edward — have just struggled out of bed.

  One particularly energetic group is standing by one of the tube entrances, arguing. Edward catches snippets of the conversation as he passes.

  “It’s gotten so you can’t walk out of your door without some drongo hassling you.”

  “But who is this guy? What makes you think we can trust him?”

  “Who cares? I say let him kill them all, and let decent people live their lives in peace.”

  Edward pushes past them and flashes his ident across the access screen. With a pneumatic sigh, the tube lifts him upward. Isn’t it funny, he thinks as the levels drop past him, how everybody you talk to always thinks somebody else is the cause of the problem.

  A crowd has gathered on the main causeway. Since the Winnower disrupted the Orcus celebration, the city has slipped into a higher gear, fibrillating with a frenetic edge. The populace is spending more time out of doors. The causeways are choked with persons of all ages, wandering quickly but aimlessly, eyes bright, knotting in small crowds, then unraveling. Edward smells a riot in the wind.

  He almost steps back into the tube, with the intention of taking the long route to work, but on closer inspection this crowd seems relatively calm. The people are all facing inward, focused on something at their center. Moving closer, Edward sees a clear area among them, with a group of clops holding the crowd back. On a ledge two stories up, a man with a knife is threatening a clop who is trying to get to him. The man lunges every time the clop moves forward, forcing him back. The man is not wearing a respirator.

  “Damn,” Edward mutters. The man is a “breather” — a suicide who has decided to do himself in simply by stepping outside.

  The man weaves on the ledge as if drunk. With his head thrown back he sucks in great lungfuls of air. His face is the unnaturally bright pink of carbon monoxide poisoning.

  Edward pushes through the crowd to the side of one of the clops. “I’m a doctor,” he says. “Can I be of any assistance?”

  The clop keeps his face turned toward the breather. Edward can only see a quarter of his face. “The situation is under control, citizen. Please move back.”

  Edward tries to move closer, but he is hemmed in by the crowd. “Are you going to try to pull him in?”

  “Can’t. He’s got a weapon, and he’s strong. We’re going to hit him with a tranquilizer dart.”

  “You can’t do that!” Edward says. “You’ll kill him!”

  The man lurches to the edge of the ledge, his toes protruding over the ten-meter drop. The crowd hushes, sensing that he is about to speak. “Wake up, people!” the man shouts, his voice raw from the poisonous air. “Can’t you see what they’re doing to us? That it doesn’t have to be this way?”

  Edward hears the spit of a hermetic rifle. A feathered dart appears, embedded in the man’s arm. He pulls it out and throws it away. “Bastards!” he shouts. Then, facing the crowd, “The experiment is a failure! We’re all sacrifices!” His speech is slurred and barely audible.

  Edward inches closer to the clop in front of him. “Listen,” he says desperately, “that man is hypoxemic, and at the same time he’s burning energy at a tremendous rate. If you depress his system further with tranquilizers, he’ll go into cardiac arrest.”

  A second dart pierces the man’s chest. He swats at it, unable to coordinate his movements. He sinks to his knees and grabs the edge, as if straining to leap into the crowd. “It’s all mixed up,” he
shouts, his voice failing. “If we tried, we could change the whole world! We’re selling water by the side of a river . . .”

  Edward pushes as close as he can to the clop. “At least let me through,” he says. “I can treat him.”

  The clop says nothing. His face is still turned away. All Edward can see is the crimson band running around his close-shaven head.

  “Damn it,” Edward says. “You could at least look at me!”

  The clop chuckles. “I am looking at you.”

  On the ledge, the man collapses. The clops move in and drag him away.

  THE CALLING

  The world is a soup of indistinct, green-tinted shapes floating in gray fog. Orel Fortigan stumbles through the void, his head spinning from the weird perspective. In the sonar world, he is much smaller. He sees himself on his screen as a clumsy stone puppet. He can distinguish his own limbs from the rock around him only by their motion.

  He turns his head awkwardly. Ten kilos of apparatus swing with him. Bernie is little more than a bright green blob at his side. The sonar helmets aren’t much good at detail.

  “Are you getting all this?” Orel asks.

  “Yeah,” Bernie replies. “And I’m downloading it to my ident every centichron for backup.” Bernie’s helmet is plugged directly into his cerebral interface. Every tunnel they pass through is recorded as part of a three-dimensional map growing inside Bernie’s head. Without it they would be hopelessly lost.

  Sweat and condensation fog their respirators and make their jumpsuits cling to their bodies. Orel’s fingers tingle with the cold as he bends down and feels the slick rock floor. The stone here is smoother than in other passages, indicating that this way is well traveled. Turning the gain up to full on his helmet, Orel can hear far-away scuffling noises over the perpetual patter of dripping water.