Steel Sky

by Andrew C. Murphy

  “You have to go, Cadell. It’s too important. You can’t miss this opportunity just because of me.” She slides away so she can look him in the eye. “You should at least see them off. You don’t actually have to go into the caves.”

  Cadell bites his lip. He can’t say he doesn’t have the urge to go. “I could do that,” he says.

  Amarantha looks at the small white doors. “They probably won’t even call me today. Even if they do, you know they won’t allow you in.”

  “That’s true.” Cadell runs his fingers along his ponytail, a nervous habit. This is too much for him to think about. He feels that either way he goes will be a mistake. “All right,” he says, standing. “I’ll shuttle down to the First Church, I’ll see them off, and then I’ll come right back. I’m not doing you any good here anyway.”

  Amarantha stands and puts her arms around him. His hug lifts her off her feet. When he puts her down she kisses him. “Hurry,” she says.

  When he is gone, Amarantha sits down and stares at the floor. One of the other waiting people coughs. Amarantha wraps her hands around herself and rubs her arms. The air conditioning in the waiting chamber is set too high. Her throat begins to hurt from the cold.

  Time stretches out. After a while she notices a pair of finely tailored slippers at the edge of her vision. She looks up: Second Son is watching her, an ugly expression on his face. He remains silent, not acknowledging her gaze. One hand is clenched in a fist. For the first time Amarantha senses the strength of the Orcus family that is his birthright. There is a malevolent power coiled within his very cells. His gray surtout looks almost black in the empty white room.

  “Hello, Amarantha,” he says finally.

  Amarantha looks behind and around him. He is alone. The other people in the waiting area pay no attention to them. “Hello,” she says coldly.

  “I’m countersuing, you know,” Second Son says, “for defamation of character. The two trials will run concurrently.”

  “They told me.” Amarantha has to spit the words out. Just talking to the man is painful.

  “You shouldn’t have crossed me, Amarantha. I could have been good to you. I could have helped you a lot more than that fop boyfriend of yours.”

  She stands, her pulse racing with anger. “He’s twice the man you’ll ever be, fat boy.”

  “I have to make an example out of you, Amarantha. My sister and I will be taking charge of the family affairs. We are the family now. We must make sure we are given the proper respect. I’m sorry, Amarantha, but I have to discipline you. To crush you.”

  “Try it,” Amarantha says. She is so swollen with anger she feels could beat him to a pulp, despite the differences in their weights. “Try it,” she says. “I’ll eat you alive, you little prick.”

  Second Son only stares at her, smiling. His nostrils flare. “Now I know why I was attracted to you, Amarantha,” he says. “You remind me of my sister.”

  Amarantha’s hands bunch into fists. She waits, feeling the tension within her vibrate till it is almost ready to explode. Second Son only looks at her, daring her to move. His smile is an ugly thing.

  “Miss Kirton? Mister Orcus?”

  Amarantha is suddenly drawn back into herself. She turns toward the voice. Her hands are shaking. A security officer has arrived. We’re ready for you now,” the man says.

  OTHER SERVICES

  He is lying on his back in a wide bed. The brightly painted room is only slightly bigger than the bed itself. A woman sits on the edge of the bed, watching him. At first it seems she is upside-down, then he realizes that her jet-black hair has been sculpted up to float about her head. The look in her eyes is unusual. It is something other than worry, but its exact nature eludes him.

  In the corner, beneath the hole he’d made in the wall, his helmet sits on a small table, the dark death’s-head eyes turned toward him. Alarmed, he touches his face with his hand. The sharp fingertips of his gauntlet prick his skin.

  He sits up, covering his face with his hands. “My mask,” he says. “Give me back my mask!”

  “Why?” the woman asks. “What’s the matter?”

  “The cameras,” he says, mumbling behind his gauntlets. “I don’t want them to see my face.”

  The woman laughs. “There are no cameras here.”

  Cautiously, he raises his head and looks around the room. What she says is true, at least as far as he can see. Better still, there is a hydrogen cell generator in the corner. He is completely off the grid. “No cameras?” he asks. “How deep are we?”

  “Deck Fourteen.”

  “Fourteen? I thought the decks only went down to Ten.”

  The woman laughs again. Her face is attractive in an angular sort of way, the work of a skilled but unimaginative surgeon. It is the unsculpted parts, the features the surgeon hasn’t gotten to yet, that make her face interesting. “We just keep digging and digging,” she says. “You’re a primey, aren’t you?”

  He nods.

  “I could tell. You’re not the first primary I’ve met. Others have come here before. Do you have any money?”

  He blinks. “Why?”

  “You broke my wall. That’ll cost me thirty-five bar to repair. And you’re in my room. All the space in these four walls is mine, allocated to me by Quaternary Resource Management. If you want to be in my space, it costs ten bar per chronon, whether you’re asleep or awake. And since you’re so touchy about people seeing your face, that means you want exclusivity. That’s five bar extra. You owe me one hundred and five bar.”

  He nods silently. He suspects the price would be much lower if he had not admitted he was a primary.

  “You’re welcome to stay if you like,” the woman continues. “You look interesting. Facilities are two bar per use. Food and drink are extra, of course. Other services are available. Costs vary depending on what your interests are.”

  “Of course.” He looks around the tiny room. Brightly patterned strips of worn, mismatched fabric hang from the ceiling. Knickknacks are glued to the walls. Despite the clutter, the only thing of consequence in the room is the bed. But it looks safe. Anonymous. “Actually, I may need to stay here for a day or two. How much would that cost?”

  Her eyes widen and her lips curl upward in the first real smile he has seen since he woke up. “Two days? Three hundred bar. Bringing the total to four-oh-five. No discounts.”

  “Fine.” He unlocks his gauntlet and removes it. Inside, his fingers are white and wrinkled from being stifled for so long. He holds out his ident to her. She looks down at his arm without moving. With a shock, he sees that her wrists are bare.

  “By the door,” she says, motioning with her hand.

  As he slides to the edge of the bed, the ache in his side roars to life. The pain shivers up his back, and makes his stomach churn. Ignoring it, he limps across the room and presses his ident to the panel by the door. He has heard that this sort of set-up was used on the lower decks, but he has never seen it before. It is as if the room itself is the person, and its inhabitant only something extra, an accessory. When the green light blinks, the woman gets up and presses the receive button. He transfers five hundred bar from his account to hers. “Thank you for looking after me,” he says.

  She checks the screen to confirm that the amount received is correct. She does not comment on the gratuity. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “I’d love something to drink,” he says, crawling back into the bed. He watches her walk to the other side of the room. Her gray chemise rides up as she bends over to open a minute refrigerator and pull out a small brown bottle. She tugs the fabric down automatically. She’s used to being watched, he thinks. He watches her as she straightens and turns. It seems to him that her every move is sensuous, accenting the curve of her back, the flare of her hips. And yet the choreography is unplanned; it has become second nature. There is a carelessness to her that is oddly appealing.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “That’s t
wenty-five,” she says, handing him the bottle. “My name’s Astrid. What’s yours?”

  He thinks of lying to her, but it seems pointless. He takes a sip from the bottle. The liquid is thick and sugary, with a touch of alcohol. He drinks deeply, savoring the sweetness. “My name is Edward Penn,” he says. “I’m a doctor.”

  She tilts her head. “You don’t look like a doctor.”

  “No. I suppose not.” He unlocks the other gauntlet and tosses it aside. The loud noise it makes when it hits the floor disturbs him. “Is the door locked?”

  Astrid nods. “This is my room. No one comes in unless I want them to. Not even Samael.”

  Edward undoes the latches on his cuirass. He does not ask who Samael is. “Help me get this off,” he says.

  As they lift the cuirass over his head, the pain flairs again. Gritting his teeth, he shrugs off the hauberk undershirt as quickly as he can. Astrid makes a face when she sees his wound. “You look terrible,” she says. The skin is not broken, but it is discolored black and yellow. The area around it is inflamed and swollen. He touches it gingerly. The stiffness indicates internal bleeding.

  “What are you going to do about that?” she asks.

  “There’s not much I can do here,” he says. “Do you have access to steroids or pain killers?”

  “Not without calling somebody in.”

  “No. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here. What do you have right now?”

  She shrugs. “I have some musth. Fifty bar per milliliter.”

  He thinks about it. “I’d better not,” he says at last. Though his kidney hurts, his skin is pink and his bladder is full, both signs of normal renal function. “Best just to leave it alone. It may not be as serious as it looks.”

  “Suit yourself. But I could use a drop myself right about now.” She opens up another cabinet and removes a small vial of musth. Removing the stopper, she lets a drop fall into her ear, shuddering with delight as it enters her system.

  Edward removes his boots, watching her. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m dressed like this?”

  “I know why you’re dressed like that,” she says. “I know who you are. We hear what goes on above, you know. We’re not completely cut off.” She regards him with half-lidded eyes. Her sculpted face could be considered beautiful or plain, he thinks, depending on how one looks at her.

  “I’ve never had a chance to talk to anyone about my . . . hobby,” Edward says quietly. “What do you think of what I’m doing?”

  “I think it’s brilliant. I only wish you came down here some time, to wipe out the dregs. We need someone to clean up this cesspool.”

  “I’ve almost never operated beneath Deck Four. It’s harder to get around the lower levels undetected. There’s not as much room to sneak around.”

  She tosses her head, unimpressed by this excuse. “So,” she says. “Do you want to have sex?”

  IN THE SHADOW OF KOBA

  Cadell steps off the upriver transport and walks up the wide marble steps, gazing up at the mammoth statue of Koba carved from the wall of the great cavern. Koba’s arms are bent back, stretching across the cavern ceiling, his idealized features twisted in perpetual agony from the effort of supporting the Sky. From this angle, the sculpture looks treacherously unbalanced. It seems as if at any moment Koba will topple forward and crush the city he is supposed to be protecting.

  Cadell hurries past the priests in their bright chasubles and kamelaukions, past the silent stonemutes in their grey robes. Glancing up, he notices that years of ceremonial offerings have blackened the insides of Koba’s legs. Condensation runs down the surface of the statue like sweat. Warm, plump drops hit the wide plaza at irregular intervals, making dark spots on the granite.

  The other Rakehells are waiting in a smaller, adjacent plaza cut off from the light of the Sun by a sprawl of buildings. The only illumination comes from glowbands on regularly spaced columns. The air smells of ozone and oiled metal.

  Thraso sees Cadell and waves. “We were afraid you weren’t going to make it,” he says. Thraso has an amplifier built into his respirator so he does not have to yell to be heard over the hum of the hydroelectric complex.

  “Sorry,” Cadell replies, jogging up to them. “I was with Amarantha.”

  “I’m sure you were. I was just telling Eno here about her lawsuit.” Thraso moves to one side, and Eno Selachian, the Culminant’s son, steps forward. Like his father, his face is nondescript, a sort of political camouflage. But there is a confidence in the way he carries himself that indicates he is someone who is used to giving orders. “Eno,” Thraso says, “this is Cadell Tichener, a very promising young member of our organization.”

  Cadell leans forward to click idents, wondering how Thraso ever managed to get introduced to such an important figure. He tries to click twice — a sign of enthusiasm — but Eno’s arm is already moving away, and Cadell’s ident only bounces off Eno’s fingers. Cadell feels his face turn red. He has only just met the man, and already he has committed a social blunder.

  “Your girlfriend is very brave to be taking on Second Son,” Eno says.

  “Yeah, she’s something.” Cadell has to shout to be heard over the hum.

  “If she wins, it could be very helpful to our attempt to disrupt the power of the Orcus family.”

  “We hope to win, of course,” Cadell says. “We think our case is good, but if there’s any way you could put in a good word for her . . .”

  Thraso coughs, and Eno looks embarrassed. Cadell has gone too far again. He takes a step backward, mentally kicking himself.

  “I think we’re all here,” Thraso says loudly. “Why don’t we get started?”

  The group of Rakehells gathers closer together. Including Eno and Cadell, there are twenty of them. Though they are all of differing builds and heights, each wears dark clothing and long, straight hair. In the pallid light from the glowbands, they look like a single man in a crowd of mirrors.

  A very different looking man is standing to one side. “This is Orel Fortigan,” Thraso announces, touching the man’s shoulder. “He’s been in the tunnels before. He’ll be our guide.”

  Cadell regards the guide dubiously. His plump face is covered with enormous pimples that are only partially covered by an old red scarf, and as he stares back at Cadell his expression is one of disinterest mingled with disdain. Curiously, while his jumpsuit is worn and soiled, his ident is shiny and new, of an expensive-looking design Cadell has never seen before.

  The guide clears his throat. “The tunnels are quite extensive,” he says. Because of his respirator and scarf, Cadell can barely hear him. “I’ve got a route mapped, loaded in my tengig. Stay close to me at all times. It’s easy to get lost, and we may not be able to find you if you wander off. And stay quiet. The Rats have excellent hearing. Let’s try not to antagonize them. They’re violent when provoked, but I think there’s still a chance we can come to peaceful terms with them.”

  Thraso laughs. “And here are your weapons!” he shouts, opening a case at his feet. He hands a soft gun to each of the Rakehells. They murmur their appreciation as they examine the guns. “They’re set to stun,” Thraso says, “so as not to damage their skins, in case you want a memento. You can finish them off with a knife once they’re down. And remember: don’t be greedy. Let’s not go shooting more of them than we can carry home.”

  Thraso drops a soft gun into Cadell’s hands. “Ready?” he asks.

  Cadell looks at the gun resting in his palm. The smooth contours of the grip seem to beg to be held. The anodized metal glistens in the green light of the glowbands. “I can’t come with you,” he says, offering the gun back to Thraso. “I have to get back to Amarantha.”

  Thraso only stares at the gun, not touching it. “Don’t be stupid, Cadell. You know how the game works.”

  “I can’t go.” Cadell looks down at his feet. “Amarantha needs me. I only came to see you off.”

  “Are you serious? You’d put one woman before your w
hole future?”

  “She is my future,” Cadell says, feeling his mouth go dry.

  “I’m not going to stand here and argue with you,” Thraso hisses, grabbing the gun. “That’s Eno Selachian over there! Do you have any idea what I had to do in order to be introduced to him? Do you have any idea?”

  Cadell looks back at the city, the tiny skyline framed within Koba’s left knee. “I have to go,” he says.

  Thraso’s blood-red eyes crinkle into tiny slits. “Then go. You had your chance, Cadell. I thought maybe you and I . . .” He shakes his head and turns away. “You had your chance.”

  POINTS OF ORDER

  Amarantha reads the inscription over the doorway: The Pursuit of Justice Is Not Itself Justice. She has heard the words before, but never thought about them deeply. The slogan always seemed obvious, even trite. Now she wonders what it actually means, why it is so important to justify chiseling it into marble. Is it a summation of guiding principles, or an apology for what is to come?

  The examination booth is a small, pastel-blue cylinder. A black band — a camera — encircles the room at eye level. A single chair faces two monitors. One monitor shows herself, as seen through the black band, oddly compressed and pale. The other shows Second Son entering his own booth. He stands for a moment, looking calmly around, then sits down.

  There are no accommodations for food, water, or any other bodily needs in the booth. The ideals of the Second Pandectors are simple: if a case cannot be argued by a single person in the time between meals, then it is not an honest case.

  Amarantha sits in the simple chair and swivels around. The seal on the door is so tight she can barely discern its outline. Cool air blows down on the top of her head.

  “Welcome.” Image’s soothing voice fills the room, coming from everywhere at once. “You are now in the eye of justice. Everything you do or say from this moment on will be recorded and transmitted, so choose your words with care. This system was designed by the Second Pandectors to allow the quick resolution of grievances between citizens. You and Mister Orcus will each argue your cases. You will each be allowed to call up three episodes from the master scrutation records to support your argument. Any event recorded by the cameras is available to you. I will arbitrate the proceedings and remind you of points of order. When you have both made your cases, records of the proceedings will be reviewed at leisure by the veniremen, twenty ordinary citizens selected at random. They will render judgment and punishment, if any, according to the laws of the Hypogeum. Do you understand?”