Finally, the doors slide open and she hurries inside. As the doors close and the car begins its rumbling descent, Amarantha feels something superficially resembling calm for the first time in days. She has been acting on impulse for so long now, it will be good to settle down somewhere, no matter how squalid, to take a moment to think for a change. She needs to decide what her next move should be. She needs, for that matter, to decide what she wants to do with the rest of her life. She would have died — gladly — to save Cadell. She was prepared to die to avenge him. But none of that means she wants to die if she doesn’t have to. Every moment she is alive is a tribute to Cadell’s memory, to their love, and to herself. Every moment is a spit in the eye of Second Son, and a chance that she will live to stand over his dead body.
And then an idea hits her.
Where the idea comes from, she couldn’t say. It feels like a flower blossoming from a seed planted long ago. It occurs to her that the bowels of the city are not the only haven she could seek. There is another place, just as remote and even more unlikely to be suspected.
She lifts a clear protective panel on the elevator controls and pushes the emergency toggle. The elevator shudders and screeches as its descent comes to an abrupt halt, throwing Amarantha to her knees. The lights flicker momentarily, then resume their steady glow. Gingerly, she picks herself up and pulls the toggle out again. She takes a deep breath and presses the button that will return her to Deck One.
OLD BUSINESS
In any government, few decisions of real import are made in the great halls with marble floors and high ceilings. Real power sits in the back rooms, simple places with inexpensive furnishings. It is into just such a room that Second Son walks, thrusting the unlocked door open and slamming it shut behind him.
The people seated at the long table are some of the most important in the Hypogeum: high-ranking members of the Prime Medium, the Director of Security, the Manager of Hydroponics, and others. Their conversation stops awkwardly in mid-sentence. A few of them rise from their seats and look nervously at Second Son. Only the Culminant, Selachian, has the presence of mind to speak.
“I don’t recall that you were invited to this meeting, Second Son,” he says.
Second Son slams his palm down on the table. “Orcus!” he shouts. “I have taken my father’s position, I have taken his power, and I have taken his name! I will not tolerate your disrespect!”
“Yes, of course,” Selachian says impatiently. “However . . .”
“I don’t think you appreciate how much things have changed,” Second Son interrupts, glowering at Selachian across the length of the table. “I don’t think you appreciate how much these eyes see.”
“They’ll be seeing a warrant of execration if you don’t settle down,” Selachian says. “No one here is disposed to be generous to you. Half the people in this room lost their sons because of the madwoman you incited.”
Around the room, heads nod. Efforts to rescue the Rakehells had made no headway against the tons of rock that blocked the cave entrance. Even simple examination of the rubble caused dangerous rockslides and threatened to dam the river, which would have been disastrous for the city. It had quickly become clear that rescue was impossible.
“A tragedy which would not have occurred if the expedition led by your son had not gotten lost,” Second Son says. “But you are not the only man who has lost a son, Selachian. My father has also had that dubious privilege.”
One of the Mediaries interrupts: “Natural death by cancer is hardly the same thing.”
“Natural?” Second Son almost spits the word out. “This morning I noticed something unusual while I was reviewing the archives, some unscheduled repair work performed a few years back in the Hall of Indagation.” He reaches inside his surtout and withdraws a small, metal device. “So I had the casing of the camera in the Second Sensorium dismantled, and I found this . . . hidden in the only place the camera would not see: inside the camera itself.”
He tosses the object onto the table. It skitters across the tabletop and comes to rest, spinning, in front of Selachian, who resolutely ignores it. The Manager of Hydroponics reaches over and picks it up. It is a small, tapered tube with a power cell on one side. “What is it?” she asks.
“A simple device with a simple function. It beams a miniscule but steady stream of alpha particles at whatever is beneath it, in this case the head of the person sitting in the control chair of the Second Sensorium. My brother.”
Second Son waits, leaning forward, his hands spread across the table, for his words to sink in.
“Are you saying,” the Reclamations Manager asks, “that this device caused the tumor that killed First Son?”
“It would have killed me, too,” Second Son says, “if I hadn’t replaced my father so quickly. I moved out of the Second Sensorium before I could absorb enough radiation to become sick.” He looks at the Culminant. “You didn’t count on that, did you, Selachian?”
Selachian shifts in his seat. “I assure you, Sec . . . Orcus, that I had nothing to do with the installation of this device, whatever it may be.”
“I could prove that you did,” Second Son says, walking around the corner of the table, “but it doesn’t really matter. It would have come to this sooner or later anyway.” He looks at the Director of Security and tilts his head just a bit.
The clop pushes back his chair and stands. Because of his red eyeband it is impossible to tell in which direction he is looking, but his mouth is curved downward, his jaw set fiercely. The other people at the table lean away from him, unconsciously intimidated.
“No transfer of power can ever be secure without the support of the security force,” Second Son says quietly. “Director, whom do you trust to serve the good of the Hypogeum?”
Selachian smiles. He leans back in his chair, his interlocked fingers resting on his stomach. “You’ve miscalculated badly, Second Son,” he says. “The Director is on my payroll. He has been for a long time now.”
The clop pushes his chair in and walks toward Selachian. He stands behind him, one huge hand resting on Selachian’s shoulder.
“I know that already,” Second Son says. “I’ve seen you pay him.”
Selachian is still smiling when the clop leans forward and wraps his arm around Selachian’s throat. He pulls back sharply, lifting Selachian out of his seat. Selachian’s eyes bulge out. He tries to inhale past clenched teeth, but the clop’s grip is too tight.
Second Son picks the radiation device up from the table. He turns it over in his hands. It is very light, almost fragile in its construction. “I’ve also heard him complain that you don’t pay him half what he’s worth.”
Selachian’s face is bright red. He tries to reach up to grab at the clop, but his arms cannot get around the beefy forearm. His face turns from red to purple as he fights for breath. Veins stand out on his forehead.
The Reclamations Manager puts his hands on the table and lifts himself slightly out of his seat, as if he is about to stand and object. He glances first at Selachian, then at Second Son, then back again. Without a word, he sinks back into his chair.
Selachian’s chair falls over as he struggles, his feet flailing wildly. His white lips move wordlessly, trying to scream the words that he thinks will save him. The table shakes and papers go flying as his heel comes crashing down against it. Second Son ignores him. He holds the radiation device up to the light, studying it.
With a loud pop, Selachian’s thyroid cartilage collapses. Blood pours out of his mouth and nose. The clop holds him a few moments longer, making sure he is dead. Then he lifts Selachian’s limp body in his arms, like a child. He carries it to a corner and lays it there gently.
Second Son slams the radiation device against the marble tabletop. It shatters easily into a dozen pieces. He walks around the table, past the wide-eyed managers and directors. He leans over and picks up Selachian’s chair. He rolls it back to the head of the table and sits down.
“Is there a
ny more old business?” he asks. The room is silent. “No? Good. I have some new business I think you’ll all find very exciting . . .”
SURFACE AREA
As he reaches upward, Orel feels a tiny rivulet running down the rock face. He leans forward eagerly and licks it up. The water is sandy and sour, but it runs in a steady trickle. Orel drinks for a long time. It brings new strength to his tired limbs.
He begins to climb again. After a while he hears Bernie’s voice over his shoulder. “I’ve been thinking,” Bernie says.
“About what?” Orel asks. He does not bother to turn and look. He keeps climbing.
“The Founders’ world could have been anywhere in the rock,” Bernie says. “They could have come from any direction.”
Bernie pauses. Orel senses that he is waiting for a response, to keep the interaction going. Politely, Orel says, “So?”
“Doesn’t it seem odd to you,” Bernie says, “that of all the directions the Founders’ world could be in relation to the Hypogeum, that it should happen to be straight up? Doesn’t that seem to be a curious coincidence?”
“It certainly makes my job harder,” Orel grunts, pulling himself up another half a meter.
“It couldn’t have been any easier for the Founders,” Bernie says. “Think of them carefully lowering all their supplies down this shaft. It must have been an enormous job. When they set out to found a new world, why didn’t they just dig a tunnel sideways, instead of straight down? It would have been much less difficult.”
“You’re right,” Orel says, stopping. “It never occurred to me.”
“Why go straight down?” Bernie asks. “What’s so special about down?”
Orel considers this. “It’s the direction of the pull of gravity,” he says.
“Right. Now under what circumstances might down be the best direction to travel?”
“When there’s something impassable above, something denser than rock.”
“Or less dense. Consider this: what if the universe isn’t solid rock all the way through, the way the Geospiritualists say? What if it’s only part rock, and the rest is empty space? What would happen?”
“The rock would fall.”
“Where?”
Orel thinks for a long time, his head resting against the cold, slick wall. He tries to remember what little he was taught about the obscure subject of gravity. “Every particle of matter, however small, exerts a gravitational pull . . .” wasn’t that part of it?
Suddenly, Orel opens his eyes. He can see the answer through the darkness, as if it as projected before him, in all its grandeur. “Into itself,” he says weakly. “Into a single, massive conglomeration of rock with a volume, with a surface area, unlike anything we’ve ever seen. A place where men could live. Thousands of them. Millions. Billions. And beyond that, nothing but space.”
“That’s where the Founders came from,” Bernie whispers in his ear. “That’s where you’re heading.”
Orel shakes his head. The image is too incredible to be believed. Another one of Bernie’s crazy theories. “It’s a beautiful idea,” he says reluctantly.
“And therefore,” Bernie says, “it must be true.”
FINAL ORDERS
Edward sits in his domus, dressed in a simple day-robe, looking out the window. The carpet beneath the untinted glass has grown pale and faded. Using only the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, Edward brings a cup of tea up to his mouth, concentrating fiercely as he sips it. The other fingers of his hand point out uselessly. He knows that exercise will not reverse the hemiplegia, but still he is determined to work his damaged nerves as much as they will stand.
As he lowers the cup to the table, the door opens, without a knock, without a signal. Second Son steps through the doorway. He walks across the room casually, as if he has lived here all his life, and seats himself across the table from Edward. Sunlight gleams off his hairless head.
He is silent. His eyes move up and down, studying Edward intently, but still with the same languid slowness, as if he has all the time in the world.
“You’re Second Son,” Edward says. “I’ve seen pictures of you.”
“It’s Orcus now. And let’s not play games, Edward. We know each other much more intimately than that. And you know why I’m here.”
With an effort, Edward lets go of the cup. “No,” he says, “I don’t.”
“I have a job for you, Edward. A special task that only you can carry out.”
“If you’re sick, you can visit me in the hospital, during office hours.”
“I said no games, Edward. There’s one more winnowing for you to perform, one more bit of dirt to be scraped away before the gem can shine.”
Edward takes a breath. He supposes he should feel frightened, or sad, or angry. But he is empty. “How did you know?”
“I know everything, Edward. Get used to it.”
“It took you a while to catch on.”
“Yes,” Second Son agrees, tapping his nailless fingers against the tabletop. “But then I had the vision. I saw how you rerouted the camera lines, so that I was looking at your neighbor’s domus when I thought I was watching yours. Then I backtracked, and watched Image teach you how to do it, watched it give you all the other information you needed to become the Winnower. I had no idea its programming was so open. I’ll have to correct that.”
“What do you want from me?” Edward asks.
“I told you. There is a woman who has twice tried to assassinate me. I need her to be punished. That’s what you do, isn’t it, Edward? Punish people?”
“Why not do it yourself?”
“There’s been such an unpleasant misunderstanding between us, Edward. People think that you disapprove of me, and therefore that Koba, or . . .” — he waves his hand in the air — “whatever . . . also disapproves of me. That public perception of disapproval makes my job very difficult, but if you were to show yourself as an enemy of my enemies, that would help clear up the misunderstanding.”
“Why should I help you?”
Second Son shakes his head, making a tsk tsk noise with his tongue. He pauses to brush out a wrinkle in his uniform. “Don’t make me resort to threats, Edward. I don’t have to tell you what would happen if people were to learn how you spend your free time. Half the population loves you, the other half hates you, all without having met you. It’s the curse of popularity. They all want a piece of you. They’d make your life a living hell if they knew who you were, where you lived. And that’s just the general populace. What about your professional colleagues? They’d never give you a moment’s rest. At the very least, your medical license would be revoked.”
Edward stares at him steadily. “Do you think any of that means anything to me?”
“Maybe not. But what about the Winnower? He’s done some good to this city, Edward. Fear of him keeps many criminals from crimes they might otherwise commit. Respect for him makes the rest of the populace a little more diligent, a little more honest. If the Winnower were to be exposed as a weak, vain, ordinary man, then all of that would be undone.”
When Edward says nothing, Second Son leans forward, so that his dark eyes are only inches from Edward’s. “Think about it,” he hisses. “All those men and women you’ve killed . . . if you don’t do this one little thing, it will be as if you’ve murdered them all again . . . to no purpose.”
Edward does not flinch. He continues to stare at Second Son, who finally leans back casually into his chair. Edward reaches for the teacup with his two good fingers. As he lifts it, his fingers tremble and the cup tips. A small brown stream runs across the table and drips over the edge. Neither Edward nor Second Son makes any move to stop it. Edward takes a sip from what is left, but the tea has grown cold.
“Just this one job, Edward,” Second Son says. “And then you can retire. I’ll never ask another thing of you, I swear on my mother’s soul.”
“This woman,” Edward says finally, “You know where she is?”
Second
Son smiles. The scar on his lip turns the smirk into a sneer. “Oh, yes.”
THE DARKENING OF THE SUN
The Deathsman is awakened by the sound of small fists pounding at his door. “Master!” a muffled voice cries, “Master! Can you hear me?”
The Deathsman opens his sleep-encrusted eyes and reads his chronometer. With rising anger he sees that he has nearly a chronon before the aspirant is supposed to wake him. “Go away!” he shouts. “It isn’t time!”
The pounding resumes. “Let me in, master! Open the door!”
Something in the aspirant’s voice touches the Deathsman’s heart and quells his anger. He stumbles out of bed and to the door, where he touches his ident to the lock panel. The door slides open. He is about to demand an explanation when the aspirant pushes past him with barely a glance in his direction. The boy pushes aside a dresser to reveal the register in the floor. He wets his finger and holds his hand, palm down, above the grate. He closes his eyes, concentrating. “It’s drawing,” the boy says, “as it should.”
The Deathsman raises his eyebrows at this. The vents carry a carefully blended, breathable mixture of gasses from the electrolytic conversion stations upriver through the ducts into the living spaces of the Hypogeum, while the registers push air out again the shortest distance possible: straight outside to the fumatory. If the fans in the outflow ducts were ever to reverse themselves . . .
“What’s going on here, boy?” he growls.
In response, the aspirant points to the other room. The Deathsman hurries past him. Projected above the holopad is the aspirant of another Deathsman. The slim, naked boy is kneeling on his master’s bed with the sheets tangled around him, his eyes red with tears, his face white with fright. The boy’s master is sprawled across the bed in what might be mistaken for sleep if it were not for his perfect stillness, for the fact that his chest fails to rise and fall.
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