“That is as it should be,” he whispers.
The aspirant smiles, enjoying the touch of his master’s fingers. He reaches up to hold his master’s arm. Suddenly, he feels the Deathsman’s wiry muscles tighten beneath his sleeve. The Deathsman raises his head and looks around, eyes wide. The aspirant has never seen such a look of fear on his master’s face.
“Get away!” the Deathsman shouts, pushing his aspirant away from him.
“What is it?” the aspirant cries, falling backward into the dirt. “What have I done?”
“Get away from me!” the Deathsman shouts. “Go!” The shadows around him ripple and darken.
The aspirant scrambles to his hands and knees. He hurries away, knowing that whatever is about to occur is not something in which he should interfere. When he reaches the wall, he turns and sees another Deathsman appear, dressed in the robes of the Brotherhood. His master, in his simple civilian clothes, looks small and helpless beside the masked figure.
This is how they must feel, the aspirant thinks. Silver-tipped hands snake out from beneath the new Deathsman’s cloak, dancing in the air only centimeters from his master’s face.
His master moves away from the newcomer, shuffling backward. A second uniformed Deathsman swirls out of the shadows behind him. The master skillfully dodges his outstretched fingers, but the aspirant can see they are only toying with him.
The master scrambles to one side, but a third Deathsman appears in front of him, and a fourth. They circle around the master, who stands crouched, his legs wide apart, looking for a break in their defenses. A fifth, and then a sixth, Deathsman slip out of the darkness, their cloaks floating behind them like smoke.
The aspirant has never before seen so many brothers acting in tandem. They swirl around his master in a silent, graceful dance. The master flinches only a little as their argent fingers dart menacingly at his face. He keeps his gaze on his aspirant, warning him with his eyes to stay back. Suddenly, a Deathsman’s hands shoots forward, striking the master in the forehead. The master’s face twists in agony and he exhales sharply between clenched teeth, but otherwise he does not make a sound. Then the Deathsmen crowd closer, and his face is lost between the dark shapes.
The circle tightens and its rotation accelerates. Their silhouettes flow together, blending into a single silent shape that pulses like a heart as they move in, then withdraw, then strike again. The aspirant watches fearfully for his master’s face, but he can only see intermittent flashes of silver in the blackness. The circle draws still tighter. The Deathsmen, weaving their eerie dance, now crouch as their fingertips jab inward. The master has fallen to the ground.
The Deathsmen slow and stop their revolution. They remain bent over the master for a few moments. Their silver hands flitter in and out of their robes, finishing their arcane ritual. They straighten one at a time. Slowly, still moving with the same fluid grace, they slip away. As silently as they came, they fade into the shadows.
The aspirant runs to his master, who is lying face down in the dust. The aspirant lifts his master’s head, and sees that it is covered with black and yellow bruises. The master spits dust from his mouth and coughs. He rests on his elbows, too weak to stand.
“I did it,” he says. “I didn’t make a sound. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.”
“Are you all right, master?”
The Deathsman struggles to sit up. He falls to one side. His arms and legs wobble as if drained of all strength. The aspirant puts his arms around him, helping him balance. Finally, the master is able to sit. He rolls up his sleeve, wincing. The bruises run all the way up his arm. He touches one and grimaces with pain. “Selective necrosis,” he explains to the aspirant. “My punishment.”
“How bad is it?” the aspirant asks. “Are you ill?”
“It’s only cosmetic.” The Deathsman tries to stand. His leg folds under him, and he falls back into the dirt. “Well, mostly,” he says.
The aspirant helps him to his feet. By leaning on his aspirant, the master is able to walk. Haltingly, they make their way to one of the archways leading to more populated areas. “Oh, master,” the aspirant says. “I was so afraid.”
The master smiles, then grimaces with the pain of taking another step. “That, too,” he whispers, “is as it should be.”
OPTIONS
Orel crawls quickly through the narrow channel, cutting his hands on the rough rock, and grabs Eno Selachian by the shoulders.
“Eno!” he croaks, shaking him, “Eno! Wake up!”
Eno Selachian turns his face away from the voice, reluctant to wake. Orel shakes him. Finally, Eno opens his bloodshot eyes. His hair is matted in greasy locks, and his breath is foul. Orel doesn’t judge; he knows he is no beauty either.
“What do you want?” Eno groans.
“I’ve been talking to the Rats.”
Eno regards him suspiciously. “What do you mean, talking? They don’t talk. You said so yourself.”
“They talk. Without talking. I was watching them feed, and I was struck by evidence of a social hierarchy. The big ones eat first. The small ones have to wait until the big ones are full before they get their meal. But I saw a smaller one try to sneak into the group and get his food before they were finished. A large female pulled him aside. Eno, she talked to him.”
“How?”
“Touch. They can’t communicate by sound, because the fumatory has destroyed their vocal chords, just like it’s doing to ours. They can’t communicate with visual signing, because it’s too dark. So they use touch. They have a tactile language!”
Orel puts his hands on Eno’s chest. “That’s why they took away our shirts. That’s why they were touching us so much when they first brought us here. They were trying to communicate.” Orel puts the palm of his hand over Eno’s heart. “See? This is the sign for — You.” He puts both hands on Eno’s shoulders and gently pushes. “That’s the sign for — Wait. See?”
Eno pulls away from him, shivering. “And you’ve been talking to them?”
“Yes. To the little ones, anyway. The little ones can’t hurt us. Because they’re not allowed to.”
“Then we’re saved,” Eno says breathlessly. “All you have to do is explain to them that we’re not a danger to them, that we only wish to go home.”
“I explained that to them, Eno. As best I could. They didn’t care.”
“That’s impossible. You have to tell them this was all just a mistake. Explain to them that we have thoughts and feelings and families just like they do! If they understand that, then they won’t kill us!”
“They already know all that, Eno. They’re much smarter than we gave them credit for. They know all about us. They just don’t care.” Orel takes a deep breath. “This is what they do, Eno. They eat each other.”
Eno slumps down against a rock. He begins to sniffle. “All we have to do is wait. My father will come and get us.”
“We never told anyone how long we might be gone,” Orel says. “By the time they notice we’re overdue, we’ll all be dead.”
“We haven’t communicated with them. They’ll notice that.”
“No one’s paying attention. You were all so arrogant you didn’t make plans for assistance.”
“All we have to do is wait . . .”
“We can’t wait any more. We have to move now while they’re groggy from their big meal.” Orel crouches beside him. “I see two possibilities. One involves half of us getting out of here alive.”
Eno shakes his head. It is all too much for him. Snot runs down his face, onto his lips. “How?” he asks.
“You,” Orel says, with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. “Your father is Culminant. You’re the closest thing to a natural leader in this group, now that Thraso is dead. You could tell the Rakehells to jump up now, to make a dash for the tunnels and freedom. They’d follow you. I know they would. In the confusion, I figure about half of us could make it out alive.”
Eno shakes his head so hard his
whole body shudders. He looks around, but the other Rakehells are all either asleep or ignoring them. They are dim, sullen shapes in the dark. The air in the pit stinks of urine. “I can’t do it,” Eno says, his voice trembling. “They wouldn’t follow me. I don’t have the same influence over people that my father has.”
“You’ve got to try,” Orel says fiercely. “You’re the best hope for all these men. For your friends.”
“I tell you I cuh-can’t do it!” Eno cries, tears running down his face. “You said there were two possibilities. What’s the other one?”
Orel turns away and gazes over the edge of the pit, at the fires in the darkness, at the shadowy figures huddled around them. “That I get out alone.”
BLIND LOVE
Amarantha and Cadell lie together in bed. She strokes his hair softly. His expression is the trusting, unconcerned emptiness of a child. The room is dark except for tiny glowglobes on either side of the bed.
“You gave it all up for me,” Amarantha says. She is following Doctor Penn’s advice that she continue to talk to him.
Cadell looks up, troubled by the quavering tone in her voice. Then, seeing that she is smiling at him, he settles back into his previous position, with his head resting against her chest.
“I never thought much about it before,” Amarantha says. “I had other things to worry about. But talking to Doctor Penn about your execration, about your old life, started me thinking. You loved being an actor. It meant enough to you that you were willing to endure poverty, low status, even execration, as long as you could continue to act. And then you gave it all up for me. Because you knew I wouldn’t be happy as a criminal’s wife.”
She lets her hand slip from his hair down to his shoulder, pulling him closer. “I never realized. I was too wrapped up in my own problems to see what you were doing for me. What you gave up.”
He stirs, and turns towards her. Amarantha can barely see his face in the darkness, but even in silhouette the angle of his cheekbone and the curve of his ear are a comfort to her. The familiarity of his face and his way of moving are a part of her life. A part of her.
“It’s funny,” she says, “I looked all over the Hypogeum, as high and as low as I could go, but it was you who found me, just looking at the gardens in the Atrium.”
He puts his free arm around her. Though he is not muscular, his shoulders are broad enough that he can easily embrace her in this awkward position. She can see by the wrinkle of his cheek that he is smiling. She tucks her head into the hollow between his neck and shoulder. She closes her eyes and breathes in his clean scent.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I took you for granted.”
He presses closer to her. His lips brush her forehead. His hand grips her shoulder as he shifts his weight. Though he is still gentle, there is more insistence in his movement than before. His hand moves down her back, fingertips blind and quickened.
There can be no mistaking what he wants. Though his mind may be damaged, the old instincts still run as strong as ever. A shiver runs through her. It has been so long. Since that awful day in the Disc-room. Do I want this? she thinks. Yes, she knows immediately. I do.
Feeling her muscles tighten, he pauses, momentarily uncertain. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s good.”
Encouraged by the tone of her voice, he rubs against her, and she can feel his erection against her thigh through the thin bedclothes. She feels the blood warmth well up within her in response. It has been such a long time since they were together like this. She had forgotten how good this place was, the nexus where love and lust coincide.
His breath is quick and his movements awkward. He is like a teenager again, shy, afraid he will hurt her. She pulls him forward and slips his underwear off, murmuring gently in his ear, comforting him. He kisses her neck, her breasts. His body remembers the motions, even if his mind does not. She runs her fingers down his chest, playing with the few lonely hairs nestled there. It’s best like this, when you have known each other so long, Amarantha thinks abstractly. It’s when you know each other’s patterns that sex is the best. She keeps a tube of ointment by the bed, but it isn’t needed. Amarantha hadn’t realized how ready she was. He moans, and — as always — her own pleasure is multiplied by his.
He moves slowly at first, then faster. He is utterly without finesse, driven only by the blind urge for orgasm. It doesn’t matter. He is here, with her.
She looks up at his face and sees fierce emotion there, so much like pain, or rage. Sudden recollection causes a wave of nausea to roll over her. For a moment she is back in the Discroom, with Second Son’s dark eyes much too close to her own, his hand around her thin wrist. She feels an almost uncontrollable urge to push Cadell off her.
Closing her eyes, she concentrates, grasping mentally like a drowning woman. If she cannot find something to hold onto, she will scream, she will explode, she will die of terror. And then, suddenly, she feels it, a fulcrum inside her, a strength she didn’t know she had. The strength to overcome her fear. A strength that did not exist before she met Cadell.
She opens her eyes. He is looking at her face, and he is smiling. She can tell that, somehow, he has also been touched by the moment. Without her, he too would be much less than he is. She wants to kiss him, but she does not. She needs to see his eyes. His eyes are the most beautiful things she has ever seen. They close with almost-pain, then open in amazement, looking into hers, as if to seek out the source of his joy. But it is not within her, any more than it is in him. It is between them, disappearing when they are apart, blossoming into sudden radiance when they reunite.
After it is over, he lies curled against her, half-asleep. She runs her hand across his forehead, savoring the simple clarity of the moment. It is as if the entire world, everything except the two of them here in this tiny room, has ceased to exist.
After a while she glances at her ident and is surprised to see how very late it is. She lays her head back into the pillows. Pleasant exhaustion tugs at her limbs. She does not bother to wash up or straighten out the tangled sheets. It can wait. Everything can wait. She arranges herself for sleep, careful not to disturb Cadell, whose head is still resting on her shoulder. Air whistles softly through his nostrils with each long breath. Amarantha pulls the covers over him and gently kisses his forehead.
She settles her head on the pillow, and closes her eyes, thinking: This is one thing you can’t take from us, you bastard.
PUPPETS
Orcus slowly opens his eyes. Even this tiny motion is an effort; the lashes are glued together by grit. He is uncertain whether it is day or night. The lights in the hospital, unable to accommodate the multiple schedules of its constantly changing patients, never dim.
Second Son is standing on the other side of the room, watching him. He is dressed in his best surtout, with polished skingloves and a new, deep crimson scabbard on his belt. His back is ramrod straight. The scar along his lips is twisted in a knowing smile.
“How long have you been here?” Orcus asks, mumbling past the dryness in his mouth.
“Not long,” Second Son replies, walking forward.
Orcus struggles to sit up. His whole body is a muscle that has been worked too hard. He glances at his ident; he has been asleep almost a full day. “What have you been doing all this time?”
“Watching,” the boy says simply. He stops a short distance from the bed. He is very still. The flickering fluorescent lights give his plump, hairless face the pallor of a corpse. But his dark eyes are alive, brilliant with an inner fire.
Orcus feels a tingle run through him, an actual shock down one side that makes his exhausted heart shudder in his chest. He pulls himself forward, gripping the side of the bed, staring into Second Son’s eyes. “Koba’s little penis,” he whispers. It is the most sacrilegious curse he knows. “You’ve seen it.”
Second Son’s smile grows wider, the skin stretched taut from cheek to chin. His eyes become thin, glittering slits.
; “Tell me, damn it!” Orcus says, hope and impatience battling for control of his emotions. “Tell me you’ve seen it!”
Second Son’s lips barely move. “I’ve seen it.”
“Tell me.” Orcus leans forward, as if to reach out and touch his son. “Tell me what you saw.”
Second Son’s smile fades in intensity, and his eyes unfocus. Orcus knows that Second Son is looking through him, through the walls of the hospital and out into the Hypogeum. “It was just as you described it. Suddenly it was all there. All at once. Everything interlocking tightly together like the most perfect puzzle ever constructed. I can’t believe I never saw it before.”
“Tell me more,” Orcus says. “Tell me something you couldn’t know unless you truly have had the vision. Something I never told you.”
“All right.” Second Son rushes forward with such speed that Orcus involuntarily scuttles backward in bed. Gripping the headboard with one hand, Second Son leans over his father, his dark eyes flashing. “How about this, Father. Total vision means more than just seeing the present. More even than seeing the past. Total vision means seeing the future, the whole of eternity laid out before you. Do you know why that’s possible, Father? It’s because people aren’t really people. They’re robots, programmed by habit and personality. A man with total vision will always be able to foresee what the people around him will do next because they’re really nothing more than cheap little puppets. They follow the same scripts over and over, endlessly repeating themselves with little variations, until they finally just wear out, run down, and fall over.”
Second Son turns away from his father, his hands clasped behind his back, as if embarrassed by this sudden display of enthusiasm.
Orcus feels tears running down his face. “Yes,” he says, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Yes. That’s it.”
“Are you happy for me, Father?” Second Son asks without turning around.
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