The three remaining rings screech in protest. She feels the solder in one give way and the metal begin to bend. The harness was not designed to carry this much weight. If only Dr. Penn and his armor were not pulling her down, if the straps of the harness were not digging so deeply into her armpits and under her ribcage, she might be able to twist around to grab the rope, pull herself to safety.
“Doctor Penn,” she says quietly, “you have to let go.”
He raises his head and glares at her through the dead eyes of his mask. His teeth are clenched tightly, but whether it is in pain or fury she cannot tell. His breathing sounds weak.
“Doctor Penn,” she whispers, afraid that if she speaks any louder the sound will break whatever magic spell is keeping them suspended. “You have to let go.”
He drops his head. If he were not still gripping her so tightly she might think he had fallen unconscious.
The solder in another ring crumbles. Cheap metal groans as it loses its shape. Any moment now the clasps will give way and they will both drop into oblivion. “Doctor Penn,” she whispers, and the fear forces the very last of the air from her lungs. “Please.”
He raises his head again, locking his death’s-head eyes on hers. The mask cannot convey whatever emotion he might want to express, but his teeth unclench and his mouth resigns slowly into smoothness. With his face still turned to hers, he lets go.
The twenty-meter drop to the surface of the Sun takes only a moment. The old, scarred plastic creaks and bows under his weight. He rises to his hands and knees, slipping in the dust that has gathered over the centuries, but makes no other move to save himself. A crack appears beneath him, growing wider as the disintegrating molecules give up their hold on one another. For a moment, the shell holds, and she thinks maybe he has a chance of survival. Then transverse cracks begin to appear. The old plastic groans and shudders. It shatters beneath him and he is falling. Falling into the Hypogeum.
THE PERFECT END TO THE PERFECT DAY
Astrid lies tangled in her sheets, unable to sleep. Insomnia, which has never been a problem for her, has lately become her curse. She looks at the clock, wondering if she should take another sleeping pill, risk the lethargy that will weigh her down in the morning.
She sits up. Regret and an ill-defined feeling of panic cling to her brain like mold to a wall. The knowledge that a crowd of strangers is camped outside her door is only a small part of the problem. She looks around her small apartment. Everything in the room is exactly the way she left it, the way she once liked it. Only one thing has changed: there are thick iron bars across the vent.
She is sliding her legs over the side of the bed, preparing to take another pill and tomorrow be damned, when she hears a pounding at her door.
“Go away!” she shouts. “I told you I can’t help you!”
“I am not one of these . . . vagabonds,” says a voice from beyond the door. “I’m a null-class citizen, and I wish to purchase your services!”
Astrid blinks, trying to calm the itch in her eyes by rubbing them with her knuckles. “You’re lying,” she says. “What would a null-class be doing all the way down here?
“I don’t have time for this,” grumbles the voice. “I’ll pay you a thousand bar to open this door!”
“Now I know you’re lying,” she says, but she rises nonetheless, covering herself with a shawl, and unlocks the door. Before it has completely opened a bald-headed man in fine gray robes pushes his way in. The group of quaternaries standing behind him crowd closer but do not try to follow. They only stand huddled together in the dark, narrow hall and stare reverently at Astrid.
“Please,” says one of them, a boy no older than twelve. “We only wish to talk.”
Astrid’s hand hovers over the doorplate. “You’re wasting your time,” she says. “Go home to your family.”
“I saw you with him,” the boy insists. “I followed you from the concourse.”
His eyes are so wide, so full of trust, that Astrid can barely stand to look at him. “You’ve mistaken me for somebody else.”
“He was protecting you,” says an old man in the back of the crowd. “He has spoken to you.”
“He is our one hope for the future!” shouts a woman with a fire-scarred face.
Astrid presses the doorplate. “Your faith is . . . misplaced,” she says as the door slides shut.
The bald man, who has watched this exchange silently, removes his gloves and tucks them into a bag hanging from his belt. His dark eyes look her up and down. As he smiles, the scar on one side of his mouth stretches until it threatens to split.
“Astrid,” he says, languidly drawing the word out, “what a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
“One thousand bar,” she says, pointing at the ident panel by the door. “That’s what you said.”
“Of course. Of course. But first I thought we might . . .”
“One thousand bar, you said. You’d better be able to back it up.”
He glowers down at her, a remarkable achievement considering they are the same height. “Are you questioning my integrity?” he growls.
“Are you giving me a reason to?”
He draws back, as if preparing to physically strike her, then seems to think better of it. A smile coats his face, artificial and heavy, like his cologne. “Certainly not,” he says. Without looking backward, he slaps his ident against the panel. “Help yourself.”
Astrid deftly taps in the amount to be transferred and accepts it. She steps back. Despite herself she smiles to think of all that money in her account.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t understand, my dear, but you are being honored today,” the man says, unbuttoning his collar. “This is the most perfect day of my life. One of my greatest enemies died only this morning, and the other two are dying as we speak. And I have decided to celebrate my victories with you.”
“Ten thousand bar per chronon,” Astrid interjects.
“Ten thou . . .!” the man shouts. Then, “Ah, well, I suppose I set myself up for that, didn’t I?”
Astrid says nothing.
“Very well. Ten thousand. But I pay you after we’re finished. And I plan to take my time.”
Astrid shrugs. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good. Now get undressed.”
TERMINUS
The Deathsman is in the Atrium, circling the crowds invisibly, when it happens. Looking up, he sees a tiny pinprick that is a hole in the darkened sector of the Sun. It takes a little while longer to see Edward. He seems to be very small, and to be falling very slowly.
As he grows larger, one of the mad preachers notices him and raises his eyes, stopping his harangue mid-sentence. Other people in the Atrium notice his upward gaze. They turn and scrutinize the Sky curiously. All activity stops.
Someone screams, and it is as if a signal has been given: people run in all directions, pushing for the exits, bumping into one another. The Deathsman only smiles and watches as Edward plummets downward. He suspects that more damage will be done by the panic of the crowd than by the impact.
Edward hits the roof, shattering it instantly in an explosion of double-paned glass. His velocity almost undiminished by the impact, he plunges to the ground. He lands in the center of the plaza at the upriver end of the Atrium, beneath the giant screens where the politicians make their speeches. Bits of broken concrete burst out around him.
The crowd clusters around the exits, torn between fear and curiosity. The Deathsman slips into visibility and crosses the plaza at a swift but measured pace. Those onlookers who have not fled give him wide berth. As he walks, he signals the knackers with his subvocal comm. “Bring a strong gurney,” he tells them. “This one will be heavy.”
Edward lies on his side in a shallow crater of shattered concrete. The Deathsman can hear him breathing weakly. The armor has protected him somewhat from the impact, otherwise he would have died instantly, but one of his legs is twisted at an impossible angle. Blood seeps out from betwee
n the plates of his armor.
The Deathsman crouches beside him, his cloak settling slowly around him. The side of the helmet is cracked, and Edward’s face is streaked with blood and concrete dust. The Deathsman can only imagine how broken his body must be inside the armor.
“Hello, Edward,” he says quietly.
Edward’s head rises slightly. “You again,” he mutters, bubbles of dust and mucus forming around the edges of his mouth. “What do I have to do . . . to escape you?”
“Only die. If it’s any consolation, you have my respect, Edward, and what’s much more rare, my pity.”
Edward’s head drops. “Leave me . . . alone,” he says, so quietly that the Deathsman can barely hear him. “Let me . . . die . . . in peace.”
“I’m afraid that’s not an option, Edward. Legends are being born even as we speak, and you are at the center of all of them.”
He glances backward and sees that the crowd has begun to edge closer. All fogged respirators and wide eyes, they watch with that unique blankness that comes over witnesses to disaster: one of horror mixed with relief . . . relief that it wasn’t them. The Deathsman leaps to his feet. “Back, you parasites!” he screams. “Back!” He circles Edward’s body, silver fingertips extended. “The first one of you that takes another step forward dies where he stands!”
The people back away, but not as far as the Deathsman would like. The days of his kind have come to an end, and they can sense it.
He settles quickly next to Edward again. “You see, Edward? You see how even these pampered fools are drawn to you? I knew you were a great man, Edward. I knew it from the instant I met you. But I had no idea just how great, not until this morning.”
Edward says nothing, and for a moment the Deathsman thinks he may have passed on, but suddenly he cries out and falls on his back, his spine arching as much as his battered armor will allow. His mouth opens wide, emitting an inhuman, almost subsonic moan, as if his individualized flesh has been flayed off, leaving only the pain and a base reptilian urge to survive.
The Deathsman realizes this will not be a good death.
He leans in. “Forget the pain, Edward,” he whispers fiercely. “It’s meaningless. Transitory. Now is the time when you must speak the words that will sum up your life, your struggles, the lessons you have learned. Give them to me, Edward. Give me your last words.”
But the moan only intensifies, becoming a wail, a labored scream.
The Deathsman leans closer, so that his face is almost touching Edward’s. “Forget the pain,” he says. “Don’t waste this opportunity!”
Edward shakes from side to side, struggling with what is left of his strength. He raises his head, the dark sockets of his mask peering intently at the Deathsman. He gurgles wetly as he tries to gain enough breath to speak. The Deathsman closes his eyes, straining to hear as Edward’s lips form his last words. He coughs them out, giving up his life’s last energy to communicate one final message. “Fuck . . . you,” he rasps.
He collapses back onto the concrete. His body, superhumanly rigid a moment before, seems to shrink within the armor. The Deathsman is engulfed in a wave of nausea and disbelief. “Oh, no,” he whispers, his eyes wide with horror. “Oh, please, no.” It cannot be, that the last words of a man so noble should be so vulgar, so common! “Edward!” he cries, shaking him. “Say something else! Give me something more!”
Edward’s head rolls lifelessly to one side, blood and spittle dripping from his mouth. The Deathsman lifts Edward’s head and stares into the empty eyes. “You don’t want to do this,” he hisses. But Edward is dead. His last words have been spoken.
The Deathsman lays him down gently. He sighs. “It doesn’t matter, Edward,” he says at last. “I’ll be your voice. I will say what has to be said. You’ll be the redeemer whether you like it or not.”
He stands, still shaking with adrenaline, his clothes covered with dust and blood. The crowd has gathered all around him now, ringing the shattered concrete. A clop is standing in front of them in his black rubber armor and the dark respirators the clops wear. He eyes the Deathsman warily from behind his crimson visor. “What was that you were saying to him?” he asks. “I couldn’t hear.”
The Deathsman shakes his head. “You’ll hear soon enough. Everyone will hear.”
“Step aside,” the clop grunts, unsatisfied. “I want to take his mask off.”
The Deathsman does not move. “The mask stays on.”
The clop glowers at him. He touches his palm to the handle of his shockstick. “Let me pass,” he says. “He may still be alive.”
“He’s dead,” the Deathsman says. “I know.”
“Then your job’s done. Why are you still here?”
“I’m his caretaker,” the Deathsman replies. He looks down at Edward. “I’ll be staying with him until the knackers come for his body. And the mask stays on.”
MANUAL OVERRIDE
Finally, far in the back of the staging area, where the walls are rough-hewn rock, behind all the rusted machines and rotting, empty crates, Orel finds what can only be the emergency exit.
A metal tube, wider than a man, emerges vertically from the rock over his head. At the end of it is a round, convex hatch with a hand wheel.
On the wall near the hatch, among flecks of red and yellow paint, is a small metal cage, with a long-dead light bulb inside. Orel drops the backpack, and wedges his glowstick into the metal cage, so his hands will be free. By its slowly fading light, Orel drags a stack of hard plastic pallets underneath the hatch, and climbs on top. He grabs the crossbars of the wheel with both hands and tries to turn it. His hands slide along the slick, cold metal; the wheel doesn’t move a millimeter. He tries again, wedging both hands in one of the corners where the crossbar meets the wheel, putting his whole body behind the effort, groaning with the strain, eyes bulging from his head.
Still nothing.
Orel jumps off the pallets, and pulls a fresh glowstick from the backpack. Activating it with a twist, Orel stalks through the old machinery until he finds a short length of metal pipe. He leaps back onto the pallets. Holding the pipe in both hands, he slams it against the hatch, which resonates with an ear-splitting ring. He strikes it again and again, sparks flying, little bits of rock and metal falling around him, until the staging area reverberates with a thousand echoes of metal on metal.
He pauses for only a moment, breathing heavily, as the echoes slowly fade away. Shimmering lights dart around the periphery of his vision, and blood runs down his chin from his lip where he has bitten through. He wedges the pipe into the wheel and pushes at it with all his remaining strength. The pallets creak and shift beneath him, threatening to collapse. Finally, with a sharp crack and a loud groan, the wheel turns. Orel turns it half a revolution, and suddenly the hatch falls open, nearly crushing him against the wall.
He stares stupidly at it for a moment. He had half expected to see something come through the hatch: a beam of blinding light, perhaps, or a friendly hand, welcoming him to a new world. But it is empty.
Orel crawls forward and looks up into the dark tube. The glowstick only illuminates it for about a meter. Rungs are welded to the curved surface. The cold air smells of corrosion.
With the pipe sticking out of his backpack and the glowstick in his teeth, Orel hauls himself into the tube and resumes climbing. It almost feels comforting, to again lose himself in the rhythm: hand up, leg up, hand up, leg up . . . hand up, leg up, hand up, leg up . . .
Before long, the light of the glowstick catches a glint of something at the end of the tube. It is another hatch, identical to the one below, except that this one curves outward because this time he is looking at it from the inside.
This is it, he is sure. This is the final way out.
Just below the hatch, the tube widens so Orel can rest on the lip, looking up at the hand wheel. His heart is pounding and he is drenched in sweat despite the cold. He takes quick, shallow breaths, trying to determine if the air is thinner here
or if it is just a case of nerves. From his life in the Hypogeum, Orel is used to confined spaces, but still he feels trapped, acutely aware that he has nowhere to go if he cannot open this hatch.
And he is not entirely sure that he should. They were fleeing from something, he thinks. That much we know. The Founders were fleeing some sort of disaster when they created the Hypogeum.
Is it wise to try to open the hatch? What if whatever the Founders feared is still out there?
It could be death to go out.
He sits staring at the hatch for a long time, until he comes to the realization that he is only wasting time. His decision is already made.
He slams the pipe against the wheel, turning his head from the cloud of rust particles that explode from the impact. Again and again he strikes it, until his ears go numb from the din. Finally, when he feels that the hatch has been sufficiently loosened, he wedges the pipe into the hand wheel, and pushes.
With a deep groan, the wheel begins to turn.
DESCENT
Fortunately, it does not take long for the knackers to arrive. They gather around Edward, two to a side, and hoist him onto the gurney. The Deathsman escorts them away. For a moment he worries that the onlookers will try to stop him, but the clop stands back as he approaches, and the crowd parts to let him pass.
Their fear of his kind helps, the Deathsman thinks, surveying their faces, but that does not explain why they so reverently step aside.
It is love. The Winnower is loved, as the Deathsmen are not.
A few people follow them into the prep room behind the giant screens, but no one tries to enter the elevator with them. The Deathsman exhales with relief as the car descends. The worst is not yet over, but a threshold has been crossed.
At the bottom of the shaft, the doors open and the gurney rattles down the dark stone corridors until they reach the main receiving station. A small crowd of hunched men and women are waiting under the bare bulbs, uncharacteristically absent from their posts. Blood and lymph drip from knives left carelessly at their tables. Acetylene torches hiss and sputter unattended. The air stinks of decay and hot metal.
Steel Sky Page 38