“Yes,” Orcus says.
“And proud?”
“Yes. Yes, I . . .” Orcus bows his head, saddened by his own lack of faith. “I didn’t think you would be able to do it.”
Orcus hears Second Son take a long, sharp breath. His shoulders bunch up. But Orcus cannot tell what his son is feeling.
“You’ve seen it, Father,” he says. “Everything I saw today, you’ve seen many times. You tell me now. Can you still see what the future holds?”
Orcus sits up in bed and pushes the sheets away. He glances down briefly at his body, once stout and proud, now wasted. He is embarrassed by how thin his legs have become. “You take over the family,” he says. “Restore it to its former glory.”
Second Son’s head dips almost imperceptibly in a nod of acknowledgement. “That’s the big picture. Anybody could see that. Tell me the details.”
Orcus purses his lips. “Are you quizzing me, boy?”
“Yes,” Second Son replies evenly. “I want to see if your vision is as clear as it once was.”
“Ungrateful whelp!” Orcus tries to raise his voice to the imperious tones he uses to command his underlings, but his lungs do not have the power. His voice sounds strained and creaking. “How dare you question me? Especially at this moment! You’ve just been given the greatest gift in the world, and I am the one who gave it to you!”
Second Son turns suddenly toward his father. His face is crimson and contorted with anger. “You gave me nothing!” he shouts. Orcus is amazed by the power in his son’s voice. “If Stone hadn’t died, I’d be still whimpering in a corner somewhere, begging for a moment’s attention. You only came to me out of desperation. I had to claw my way to where I am now by my own strength of will! I owe you nothing, old man!” Second Son’s voice grows — Orcus would not have believed it possible — even more powerful. “Do you hear? Nothing!”
Orcus sits silent, dumbfounded. At first, Second Son’s tirade had reminded Orcus of himself when he was younger. But now he realizes that Second Son has developed unique characteristics — different speech patterns, a more vibrant, violent edge to his motions. He is his own man. He is something new.
Second Son turns away again. “Forget your wounded pride, Father. I don’t have time for it. Tell me what you see.”
Orcus falters, perplexed by this reversal in their positions. His instincts tell him to rise and beat the boy, but he barely has the strength to stand. He cannot find the spirit inside himself to defy his son’s demands.
“Come on, Father. Give me a detail. Or haven’t you got the vision anymore?”
“The green-haired girl,” Orcus snaps. “And her boyfriend. You’ll chastise them somehow for causing you so much trouble.”
“That’s part of it. What else?”
“The Prime Medium. You’ll do something to regain their respect. Something big. Something dramatic.”
“Yes. What else?”
Orcus frowns. His thoughts are fuzzy. He is sure that he is missing something major, something just beyond his mental grasp. It should be obvious, but it will not come to him. His few thoughts rattle around in his head. “I’m tired of this game,” he says. “I need my rest. Come back and bother me some other time.”
Second Son says nothing. Orcus studies his son’s body language for some clue as to his thoughts, but his eyes seem to slide off him. He cannot be read. Through the door, Orcus hears the squeaking of the wheels of a passing gurney.
“I’m tired!” Orcus cries, unnerved by his son’s silence. “Go away and leave me alone!”
Second Son sighs. His head bows just a little. “Have your powers grown so weak, old man, that you cannot see something so salient, so close?”
“It’s your vision,” Orcus says. “You tell me.”
“Very well,” Second Son replies. His words are punctuated by the hissing of his dirk being drawn from its sheath.
“What’s that? What are you doing?” Orcus asks. But already he knows.
The dirk his son is holding is not the small one he has carried since he was just a child. It is Orcus’s own, larger blade. It is a beautiful weapon. The handle is polished obsidian, studded with chrysoberyl. The long blade is warped and chipped from use by a dozen previous generations.
Orcus grips the sheets, holding them up in a pitiful attempt at self-defense. “You’re mad,” he says. “You can’t intend to murder your own father!”
“Be serious,” says Second Son. “You did it to your father. Great-grandfather did it to his. Why, it’s practically a family tradition.”
Orcus glances at the nurse’s call button. But no. Better to die than to have an outsider involved in family matters.
“You’re not ready,” he says in the most authoritative voice he can muster. “You don’t know enough to rule without my help. You can’t even control First Daughter.”
“I know plenty. And I have plans for my darling sister.”
“But the Prime Medium!” Orcus cries. “You’ll need my expertise to deal with them!”
“Expertise?” Second Son hisses. “You’re a liability! Your political clout started to slip years ago. With Stone’s death — and now your heart attack — you have no prestige left. I’ll have to work doubly hard to make up the ground you’ve lost. At least when you’re out of the way I can make a fresh start.” He raises the knife.
“Please!” Orcus throws his arms around his son’s waist and presses his face against the slick, starched fabric of his surtout. He begins to sob, for once not caring about his image. “Please don’t do it, Son! All I want to do is live. I won’t interfere with your plans. I’ll retire. I’m all worn out anyway. Please. I brought you into this world, to life. Don’t you owe me that much in return, at least?”
Orcus feels something touch the top of his head. He flinches, but it is only Second Son’s hand. Gently, Second Son strokes his father’s smooth head. “You’re being honest with me,” he whispers, “so I’ll do you the same courtesy. The truth is that as long as you’re alive, I can never really grow up. As long as you still walk the earth, there will always be a part of me that is a child, afraid of you, afraid of your judgment. When you’re gone, I’ll finally be free.”
Orcus closes his eyes and leans against his son, sobbing. He feels Second Son stroke his head one more time before his hand moves down, gripping Orcus’s ear, pulling his head to one side, exposing his neck for the killing blow.
BROKEN GLASS
On his way home from the hospital, Edward Penn stops at the cafeteria. He picks up some rhomboids, bloodpop and pudding. Just before he gets home, he throws the pudding into a recycler, remembering that Astrid has an aversion to dairy products.
Edward thinks perhaps he will take Astrid shopping today. She has been in a bad mood lately. Edward does not know why. He was recently able to get her Deck One pass upgraded for a full year. She should be happy.
Perhaps, Edward thinks, it has something to do with the comms she has been receiving lately. Sometimes when Edward returns from work or an errand, he finds Astrid on the comm with an older man. The man has pallid skin and dark rings under his eyes. His face is framed with red makeup in the way the fashion-conscious do it in the lower levels. Astrid always disconnects when Edward walks in, and she refuses to talk about it, so Edward does not know the man’s name or why he keeps calling. Yet somehow he feels certain that the caller is Samael, the man Astrid described as her “agent.”
Edward tells himself not to be jealous. After all, Astrid deserves a life of her own, outside of Edward’s orbit. But the mere sight of the man sets Edward’s blood boiling. He wishes she would not talk to him.
As soon as he arrives home, Edward knows something is wrong. The locks have not been set. The door slides open at the touch of his palm.
Inside, the rooms are in disorder, so different from the usual perfect arrangement Edward prefers. Furniture is pushed askew. Drawers are left open and their contents scattered, as if someone has hurriedly searched the place. The bed
is unmade. Several of Astrid’s new outfits lie across it, ripped down the middle. Her makeup kit has been hurled against the wall, leaving a multicolored explosion of talc and plaster.
Samael. He knows it suddenly, without doubt. Samael has been here to reclaim his property.
Edward moves quickly through the domus, fearful that he will find Astrid on the floor, somewhere, her head bashed in or her throat cut, but she is gone. His hands tremble as he unlocks the trunk in the back of his closet, but the intruders have not been here. The armor is untouched.
As he is stripping off his clothes, preparing to change into the armor, he notices something unusual — a series of indigo smudges on the wall, sunlight refracted through something translucent on the floor behind the couch. He walks slowly to the window. The pedestal where he keeps his mother’s vase is empty. Beneath it, the vase lies shattered, the silver scrollwork twisted among scattered shards of blue, paper-thin glass.
It is fashionable these days to say that medical treatment after a certain point is inhumane, that we are only extending the patient’s suffering. I disagree. I say that a careful examination of the patient’s case will always reveal some way in which intervention will improve what is left of the patient’s life. We must never consider a patient to be beyond our care, his case to be beyond our control. It is never too late to treat. Remember that: It is never too late.
From “Triage for Tertiaries,”
an unpublished essay by Edward Penn
PERSONAL INFORMATION
“Image! Access Central System!”
The restrained, feminine voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. It shines from the lights, it hisses from the ventilators.
“You must be devastated, Edward. I know how much she meant to you.”
“You could have warned me this was going to happen.”
“I did. You knew the risks.”
“I should have been told the moment it happened. You should have notified me at the office!”
“That’s not how it works, Edward.”
Dressed only in his tights, he paces back and forth in front of the window. “Tell me where they’ve taken her, Image. And don’t give me any shit about ‘personal information!’ Tell me where they’ve taken her!”
“Judging from the path they are taking I estimate that you will be able to find them in the Quad Concourse in twenty centichrons.”
Edward stops abruptly. He had thought he would have to argue with Image, perhaps threaten it in some way, but he has been given exactly what he needs in the blink of an eye, without Image’s usual circumlocutions. He does not question his good fortune. He throws on the armor, pausing only a moment before he slips on the helmet.
“There are times, Image,” he says, “when I don’t understand you at all.”
“It is not necessary that you do.”
ONE MAN
Amarantha wakes early, with Cadell’s arm still wrapped around her and his cheek on her shoulder. Smiling at the memory of the night before, she slips out carefully from under his arm and pads to the bathroom. She takes a leisurely shower, scrubbing every inch of her body until it tingles. As she towels off, she looks at the meter and realizes she has used almost the entire day’s supply of water, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing can spoil her mood. She combs her hair and applies her makeup, thinking perhaps she should take the day off and go for a walk with Cadell.
When she returns to the bedroom, wrapped in a thin robe, she sees a Deathsman standing at the foot of the bed, his blank face looking down at Cadell’s sleeping form.
Without thinking, she grabs a bottle and rushes at the Deathsman, swinging it towards his head. In one fluid motion, the Deathsman steps aside and grasps her by the arm, translating her momentum sideways and hurling her against the wall. She hits hard and collapses to the floor. She tries to stand, and finds she can’t. His touch has paralyzed her.
“There has been entirely too much violence done to my person lately,” the Deathsman says irritably, his cloak settling around him once again to its usual sleek shape. “Discipline has become lax. The people of this city must come once again to respect and fear the Brotherhood of Peace and Reconciliation.”
“Damn it, leave him alone! He’s done nothing to you!” She tries to pull her body into a sitting position, but she barely moves. Her body is bent awkwardly to the side, her head almost touching the floor, watching the Deathsman out of the corner of her eye.
“It is not what he’s done that concerns me,” the Deathsman says. “It is what he does not do. This man has been diagnosed as incurably autistic. He is a drain on the resources of the Hypogeum.”
“Stay away from him!” Amarantha shouts. Although her whole body shudders with the effort, she only manages to rise a few centimeters before collapsing again. “What can it hurt to let him live?” she asks. “He’s only one man!”
“Everyone is only one man.”
Cadell, meanwhile, has been woken by the commotion. He looks up at the Deathsman, uncomprehending.
“I don’t suppose you have any last words,” the Deathsman murmurs, sweeping his cloak to one side and sitting almost casually on the bed, with one foot tucked under himself and the other on the floor. He turns his blank face toward Amarantha. “Do you have anything you would like to say before I begin?”
“No!” Amarantha manages to struggle upright at last. “Run, Cadell! Get out! Get away from him!”
Cadell sits up, staring at her with wide eyes. His mouth moves silently, a plaintive cry growing in the back of his throat. But he does not move from the bed.
“Don’t you understand me?” Amarantha cries. “Run! For Koba’s sake, run!”
Cadell begins to move toward her, but the Deathsman grips him by the shoulder, effortlessly holding him in place. “Let’s not make this any more difficult than it has to be,” he says to Amarantha. “Are you certain you have nothing to say? If you do not achieve closure at this critical moment, you may regret it for the rest of your life.”
“Don’t you dare!” Amarantha screams at him. “Don’t you dare try to put this on my head, you murderer!”
The Deathsman bows his head, having made the necessary efforts. Ignoring Amarantha’s entreaties, he mechanically recites the last observances. He touches Cadell’s forehead with a single silver fingertip. Cadell sinks back into the pillows with a sigh. His tongue protrudes slightly out of his mouth. Gently, the Deathsman pushes it back in and closes the eyes. He studies Cadell’s body, then stands and turns toward Amarantha.
She looks up at him, her eyes red with tears. “When . . . when are you going to do it?”
The Deathsman’s hands rustle under his cloak. For the first time, Amarantha hears something like pity in his voice. “It is already done,” he says.
THE ORIGIN OF THE WORLD
Orel walks carefully across the cold cavern floor. He has no illusions that he can get past the Rats undetected, but he does not intend to alarm them by walking quickly or noisily. While the Rakehells were sleeping, he had crept out of the pit, with the sonar helmet tucked under his left arm.
A small Rat blocks his path: a young male. Its sparse hair dances in the weak firelight as it sniffs at him. It has the same horrible face as the others: dead white skin, weak chin, protruding incisors, and pinprick eyes — as devoid of personality as an embryo’s. Orel’s heart hammers with fear as he thrusts his right hand onto the Rat’s chest, which rises and falls beneath his fingers. Orel makes the signs for — Let — Me — Pass. —
The Rat looks at him quizzically, then steps aside. Emboldened by his success, Orel moves on. He rounds a rise in the cavern floor, and suddenly the mass of the Rat population is before him, gathered together in one great crowd. The dung fires throw huge shadows on the stalactite curtains. The Rats move constantly past and over one another in a slow-motion orgy of casual contact.
This is what they do, Orel reminds himself. Touch is everything to them. It’s their whole world.
He begins to move throug
h the crowd, letting their hands slip over him. Occasionally one will challenge him or seek to communicate, but each one steps aside when Orel makes the signs. He moves as quickly as he can, pushing through them in the direction he believes is the exit.
Now that he is among them, he sees grunting knots of younger Rats rolling together on the ground. Apparently not all the contact is casual, and the orgy is not always metaphorical. No wonder there’s so many of them, Orel thinks.
Beyond the crowd, to his right, Orel sees the strange, man-made shape he “saw” on his first excursion into the caves, the one the Rats were gathered around. He is close enough now to make out rusted girders, bolted together in a regular pattern. The structure reaches up to the ceiling and beyond, passing through a gigantic hole in the roof. Despite its age, the structure is sturdy and well made. Clearly this is not something the Rats could have constructed themselves; at least, not in their present state. It must be ancient, older perhaps than the Hypogeum itself.
Intrigued, Orel moves closer. The crowd is thinner here, and the Rats he passes are bigger, more muscular: the alpha males. Orel is aware that he may be entering into forbidden territory, that he may be endangering himself by moving closer to the structure, but he cannot stop. He must know what it is.
Finally he pushes past the last clump of Rats. He can see the structure clearly. Metal cables as thick as his arm hang from unguessable heights, threading through pulleys to support a great platform on which the Rats have constructed a crude shrine out of human skeletons.
Despite the decay of centuries, the metal structure’s purpose is clear: it is a huge gantry and elevator. At one time in the distant past, machinery and supplies must have entered the Hypogeum here, transported unimaginable distances from some faraway place. Here is the origin of the world. Here is the entry point of the Founders.
As Orel stands transfixed, staring up at the great machine, a Rat approaches him from the side. With a start, Orel recognizes it as the one who murdered Thraso. It is casually carrying the same stone axe, its blade still dark with Thraso’s blood.
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