Steel Sky

by Andrew C. Murphy

  He feels Bernie’s hand on his arm. “Stop here for a minichron,” Bernie whispers.

  “What is it?”

  “I feel something. I’m going to turn on my lamp.”

  “Don’t!” Orel whispers fiercely. “They’ll see it. They’ll know we’re here.”

  “Relax. Do you ‘see’ anyone around?”

  Orel turns his head. His scanners, which project their data onto the inside of his goggles, show no movement within range of his sonar. “No,” he admits, “but it’s too risky.”

  “I’ll keep the light low.” Bernie activates the lamp on his helmet. He flicks the switch off, then on again.

  “Did you check the lights before we left?” he asks.

  “Of course.” Orel is distracted, watching for any motion on the edges of his sonar screen.

  “My light isn’t working.”

  Orel notices an edge of fear is creeping into Bernie’s voice. “Of course it’s working,” he says. “Try it again.”

  Bernie turns the dial to maximum and flicks the switch a few more times. “It’s not working, Orel. My light’s not working.”

  “Keep your voice down. Do you want them to know we’re here?”

  “We’re dead anyway, if we can’t see! Try yours.”

  Orel flicks his switch. All he can see is the same indistinct network of tunnels, with Bernie and himself as two bright green blobs at the center. He flicks it again. Still nothing. Bernie’s fear begins to infect him. “Shit,” he whispers. “Mine’s out, too.”

  “Gloss sent us out into the caves with defective helmets! We’re dead!”

  “Quiet,” Orel hisses. “Let me think.”

  “Think? What is there to think about? We’re dead.”

  Orel tries to put his hand to his forehead. His knuckles bounce off the helmet with a dull thunk. He gives up and bows his head, thinking furiously. Their labored breathing fills the narrow passage.

  “The goggles,” Orel says finally, snapping his fingers.

  “What?”

  “We’re still wearing the goggles!”

  Orel reaches under the helmet and pulls his goggles up to his forehead. Thin beams of light shine from either side of his helmet, swirling through the mist to illuminate a glistening curtain of white and rust-colored stalagmites. His eyes sting at the sudden luminescence. Orel laughs weakly.

  “Is it working?” Bernie asks.

  “Yeah. It’s working.”

  “Sorry,” Bernie says.

  “This is pretty interesting. Why don’t you take off your goggles?”

  “No thanks. I’m keeping my sonic eyes open, in case something hears us and decides to investigate.” The helmet makes Bernie’s voice sound very far away. “What do you see?”

  “Hanging gardens.” The wall nearest Orel is covered with life. Frilled mushrooms grow from the wall like curved shelves. Along the root-like rhizoids beneath the mushrooms are nodules filled with lithotrophic archaea that absorb energy directly from the rock itself, stripping the electrons from its very atoms. The frills of the mushrooms form a cup filled with a soup of condensation and waste matter secreted by the fungus.

  Floating in the liquid is a third life form, a plant that lives off the nutrients secreted by the other two. It has thick, rust-colored petals and long, fibrous tendrils that hang over the edges of the mushroom frills. This plant, called the dreadlock vine, contains every vitamin needed for human survival. This unique, three-way symbiosis of mushroom, prokaryote, and vine was genetically engineered by the scientists of the Hypogeum in the first century to supplement the food production of Hydroponics. Clearly the symbiosis has thrived, and spread out into the caves beyond the Hypogeum.

  A thin, high-pitched squeal echoes through the tunnels. Orel and Bernie freeze. A second cry follows the first. Orel kills the light and slips on his goggles. He returns to the fuzzy, green and gray world.

  New cries at different pitches join the first, issuing from all directions. The cries race up and down the scale, an inhuman chorus whirling around their heads. A shiver runs up Orel’s spine. “It’s a calling,” he says. “They’re calling to one another.”

  The eerie song continues, with new voices entering and augmenting the melody as the original voices drop out. Finally, the squeals drop in pitch and begin to fade out, one after another, as if by some prearranged choreography. The high, haunting notes echo for a long time. In the emptiness that follows, they hear the distant shuffling of hands and feet.

  “This way.” Orel pulls Bernie toward the sounds.

  The tunnels become wider and more traveled, branching outward at all angles. They watch for signs of movement, but the tunnels are deserted. Occasionally they see a warm signature of recent passage in the air, but always the Rats have moved on.

  Orel and Bernie pass streams and pools, invisible in their stillness, and more hanging gardens, as well as other plants and fungi they do not recognize. They crawl through the smallest tunnels they can find, avoiding the main passages, but always following the worn paths. They are nearing the center of the cavern complex, the nexus of the tunnels. The air is heavy now with the smell of sweat and the breath of Rats. They can hear the Rats hurrying past, their calloused feet and hands padding lightly across the rock. The creatures move in small packs, all converging on a large space just beyond the sonar’s reach.

  Bernie and Orel squeeze into a niche formed by collapsed dolomite slabs. “It’s a meeting of some kind,” Orel whispers. “In a gallery about twenty meters away, just around the bend. I can’t get a clear image. There’s too many of them, too much rock around us.”

  “I can almost see it,” Bernie says, his voice low. “They’re huddling together. Koba’s ghost, there’s so many of them!”

  “What are they doing? Why are they there?”

  “They’re gathered around something, focusing on it. Something huge.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “I can’t tell. It’s not organic . . . too many straight lines. It looks man-made.”

  “It can’t be. Not here.” Orel adjusts his headset, trying to focus on the room beyond the rock. All he can see are tiny green shapes, scores of them, huddling in a mass.

  “They’re moving,” Bernie whispers. “Now one of them is separating from the others, standing in front of them. It’s raising its arms. It’s throwing back its head and . . .”

  A high, angry squeal cuts through the silence, louder and sharp. Orel puts his hands over his ears. The squeal echoes and fades into utter silence.

  Orel looks up at Bernie. “What’s he doing?”

  The figure squeals again. Echoes ricochet from the walls. They can almost feel the sound cutting through them.

  “Maybe it’s echolocation,” Bernie says.

  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, fee
ling 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.