Day by Night

by Tanith Lee

  “What is it?” he said to her gently. “Not this Klovez ploy.”

  “Their hate,” she said. “It hovers over your house like a cloud of smoke.”

  And then, for the first, though why he was uncertain, a positive foreboding came to him. He did not let her see it. But after he had comforted her, and they had spoken of other things and drunk caffea together, he went to his apartments. There he began, coldly and meticulously, to put his affairs in order, as if he were in his third century, and felt death approaching, the calm death of ennui only the aristocrats knew.

  Such a death had removed Casrus’ father ten years before. Most of the aristocratic houses did not consent to create heirs until the end of their span. Physical and mental stamina being of such high standard, this lateness had no adverse effect upon the extracted gene cells. Rarely, however, did any child gain much from the presence of a parent, or live long in company with one.

  The old prince of Klarn, in common with his fellows, thought nothing of the Subterior beyond its undoubted usefulness. The Subterines he considered, if he considered them at all, were beasts of burden, animals permitted to draw breath that they might serve and entertain the Klave, as the dogga did. On the Fabulasts, those picked from the sons and daughters of the palaces, in order to serve, in turn, the workers, old Klarn had looked with mild disgust. “If the computers deem it important, let the computers see to it,” he had said. On one occasion, to the child of a brother aristocrat picked in this way, he awarded the single injunction: “Refuse.” The refusal had been effected. The young man was released from his duty immediately, but another Fabulast was chosen to replace him.

  Casrus was in his fourteenth year, the year before his father died, when he became aware, quite shockingly and in a succession of minutes, that nothing was so simple. With two other princes, of Klinn and Klef, he had visited a Theatrical in Eres sector. The drama was a comedy, covering the myth of the garden of paradise and a prince turned there into silver; trivial stuff, unmemorable. Save that, some way through the action, during a piece of buffoonery, one of the clock-work slabs of scenery depicting Kaneka slipped from its moorings, rolling a little distance to mocking calls from the audience. Errant motion was quickly halted and things put to right, but not before one of the small brass runners, the weight of a quarter of the slab upon it, had gone over the foot of the leading actress.

  The sight of the blood her foot was now slippered in, enthralled the watchers. Even Klef and Klinn, who had been squabbling over a board game while they intermittently eyed the stage, grew dumb and intent.

  As the girl moved across the platform, her foot left everywhere a blue-red print. Her face was almost blue with pain, but somehow she had mastered herself, somehow she adhered to her fatuous role, not stumbling on her lines, somehow not even limping. Casrus, horrified, could not imagine why she should suffer in this way, and for some while, combined with his horror was an admiration for her valor, her nobility.

  Then, when the drama ended to savage applause, and credit chips hailed on the stage with the jeweled flowers, the answer to the riddle, sickening and undeniable, came to him.

  She was a Subterine. She had not dared absent herself. If she spoiled the Theatrical, the aristocrats would not forgive her. If, on the other hand, she suffered before them, fascinated, they might laud her. And she must keep princely approbation at all costs. Why? Because if she did not, they could return her to the Subterior. Her agony and her steps of blood had been preferable to her, beside that alternative.

  That was how Casrus learned the nature of the Subterior, and the nature of those who came from it. It was a lesson apparently only he did learn, but he never mislaid it afterward.

  He suffered then, inside himself, the first bouts of his adult illness: guilt. To old Klarn, astutely, he did not apply for a remedy. Nor, in the wake of the father’s death, did a remedy suggest itself. For three years, Casrus brooded. He went to the libraries of the city, to its computers, seeking the very soul of it, questioning, trying to tear out the answer. He went among the Upperling Subterines of the Residencia too, the artists, artisans, actors, dramatists and the household pets, attempting to uncover in them the cause of their destiny, and the destiny of those others left behind in hell. But he gained no more than elaborations on his original discovery. For the Subterines, they fawned on him, elicited favors, and, he was positive, scorned him, laughed at him, his callow overtures to their warped self-disliking cynicism.

  Then, when he was eighteen, a prince of Klef, Bermel—not the boy with whom he had watched the actress bleeding—came to a supper to which Casrus also had come. Bermel Klef entered, leading a man by a collar and leash—a Subterine. He was supposed to be a dogga, and was obliged to crawl over the floor. Casually, for Casrus had observed the casual approach was generally the best, Casrus asked Bermel Klef if he would barter ownership of the man. Bermel, with some amusement, named an item of the Klarn wealth. “It’s a lot to ask, but then, this dogga is a very good dogga. And you don’t have to accept if you’d rather not.” “It’s yours,” said Casrus. “I’ll have it sent to you by one of my robots next Jate. Will you do the same with this man?” “Have him now, if you want,” said Bermel, and tossed over the end of the leash. The dogga man was the initial Subterine to be installed at Klarn. The usual rituals of fawning, scorn and two-facedness occurred, no more than Casrus foresaw. Nor did the relationship ever substantially alter. It merely became duplicated in other, similar relationships, the other Subterines with whom Casrus peopled his home. Not till Temal was genuine concern fleshed out by the response of a genuine belief, even then not totally; for Temal had never agreed to being his equal, a kindred human. He was the god, and she the acolyte.

  At nineteen, Casrus was already growing familiar with the ways of the Subterior itself. He went there often. To rebuild, to insulate, to assure medicine, food, clothing to those in greatest poverty, to make safe the abysses of the mines, to service the faulty machines that might lead to death on the outer surface of the planet. These forays were always greeted in the everlasting spirit—fawning, scorning, the hidden jeer, the barely muffled glare of envious hate. Casrus expected nothing else. His mission was not to win love but to ease an impossible, unreasonable, inexorable state of things, which in itself had no hope of ending. That the Subterines loathed him, just because he was a prince and because he struggled to relieve them, did no more than occasionally rouse his impatience, and only then when their loathing prevented improvement of their condition. That his own classes, the princely houses of the Residencia, also loathed him as a sting on their carefree skins, was likewise no amazement, and caused him no pangs.

  To live forever spiritually alone was something he had grown accustomed to at an early age. It did not make him afraid. His one unique dread had been, and remained to be, that some unprecedented happening would intervene, stripping him of his means to salvage where he could. At twenty, he had had dreams of this intervening happening, this weird stroke of fate. In the dreams it was some malady that defied the computers, some disintegration of the brain itself. Dreaming, he beheld himself staggering about Klarn, a witless imbecile, unable to remember what must be done, or why. But such dreams had passed. Only the haunting dread, faint as a far-off call, still lingered. Lingered until this Jate.

  And this Jate the dread had taken on a form, a substance.

  Exile.

  Such a penalty would be extreme, but not unheard of, for he had plumbed the depths of Klave Law along with its other cultural issues. A thousand years ago, a prince had been condemned to give up half his estate to a house he had wronged. The shadings of the case were dim but the outcome explicit.

  Deprived of the technology at Klarn to expiate a crime he had not committed, how could Casrus thereafter deal with the Subterior, what use would he be to that upper nether place? Therefore what use to himself?

  * * *

  • • •

  Four Jate
s after the statements had all been given, the computers sent their judgment, separately and in five silver capsules, to each of the five houses directly concerned: Klovez, Klur, Klastu, Klinn and the palace of Klarn. The words from the capsule were spoken, in a soft and reasonable voice, unlike the human, beyond humanity.

  “From consideration of the evidence and logical assessment, the computer of the Uta complex, in conjunction with the other computers of the Klave, confirms this verdict: that Casrus, prince and heir of the house of Klarn, is guilty of all crimes and charges laid against him, namely: threat of violence with a blade, act of violence with a blade, attempted assault against a woman of his own class, second act of violence against a man of his own class, though without a weapon, false statement rendered to this machine. The verdict attained, it is not open to appeal of any sort. However, the felony did not result in a mortality, and the assault was not concluded. A death penalty is inapplicable. In accordance with ancient custom, the computer therefore gives over Casrus, heir of Klarn, to his fellow princes, his punishment to be decided by them, recommending only that it be severe and complementary both to the crime and to the plight of its victims. The punishment shall be chosen and evoked from the computer by the thirteenth hour, this Jate. At the seventeenth hour, Maram, the machines of the Law will visit palace Klarn in order to enforce justice. Klarn must hold himself in readiness. We repeat that no appeal is, at this time, possible to him.”

  The effect of this message was to galvanize. Like magnetized filings, the elected judges rushed together to symbolic Klovez to make their play at jurisdiction. Great-eyed, alert, primed by their sudden authority, they perched like predatory birds in the chill dismal salon, watching Vitra, watching Vyen. A veiled discussion began. All knew what was intended, had indeed been speaking of it quite frankly throughout Jates and J’aras. Now, it was abruptly coy, hinted at, toyed with merely, as if to give some semblance of genuine debate to the proceedings. But of course they had sentenced Casrus long ago. Presently Olvia Klastu spoke the actual phrase: “Justice is only this—let Casrus lose the technology of Klarn, and let Klovez be given it.”

  Agreement dashed into the breach.

  “The very computers themselves seem to suggest as much—Complementary to the plight of its victims. What could be more clear?”

  “He’s never acted as a prince. Why should he remain one?”

  “He loves the Subterines. He’ll thrive on being with them.” And slyly, “The Klarn palace has much to recommend it.”

  Vyen and Vitra said nothing. Stark white, perching like the rest, shivering from the cold house and with nerves, they stared at their dangerous friends who were brilliantly protective of them, offering them now what they had planned for and schemed so recklessly to get.

  Though the princes would, naturally, round on Klovez as readily, given sufficient cause. Anything for a drama.

  And Vitra, in her shivering thoughts, heard Ceedres Yune Thar say, “I won’t turn thief against Hirz.” Much more polished in his wickedness than she. Then, horrifyingly, she had cried out, impelled by hysteria! “No, I won’t—I won’t turn thief against Klarn!”

  A silence fell. She was aware of Vyen, his eyes flaming on her. Then Ensid Klastu said to her, “Vitra, the only thief in this business is Casrus himself. Your generosity is exquisite but misplaced.”

  “Yes,” she blurted out, “how true—” Turning, she ran away, out of the salon, into her decaying apartment, soon to be exchanged for accustomed luxury. “What have I done?” she whispered to the walls, the ceiling, on which the beacon of Rise Uta’s lights randomly came and went.

  You know what you have done, the lights said to her, the room said to her.

  By the thirteenth hour the computer had been informed. By the fourteenth hour, Casrus had also been informed. At the seventeenth hour, Maram, the ovoid robots of the Law came gently into Klarn, and gently, politely, took Casrus away with them. No one spoke, no fuss was made. Even Temal, motionless among the other rescued Subterines of Casrus’ household (every one of them understanding that their time of security in the Residencia was also about to end), even Temal made no outcry.

  After Casrus’ departure, the hours of Maram wore, but the new owners of palace Klarn did not appear. Despite success, perhaps, putting it off.

  Vyen was suitably at a gambling stadium in Eres, with Olvia, Shedri and others.

  Vitra stood in the Fabulism chamber of Rise Iu.

  She had come to erase the tapes of the Fabulism, to wipe Vel Thaidis, Velday, the Yunea, most of all the plot of Ceedres, from the machines. But it seemed to her, standing there, that to do this would also be to blot out all their lives, to blot out the residue of life which Casrus might jettison easily enough in any event, in the Subterior to which she had condemned him.

  Thus, one hand on the keys, she sank into a sort of vegetable state, unable to proceed with her intention.

  And on the inner screen of her brain, the images began again to form. Vel Thaidis, as Casrus, sent into hell, alone, comfortless. But beside the freezing cold, a furnace heat, by the deadly blackness, a petrifying light. . . .

  Day by night, night by day, yet malevolence and anguish in both of them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Part One

  Slumopolis—Slum City—that had not always been its name. The original title was gone, wiped out by generations of descent from a past all but forgotten. Whatever the Slumopolis had once been, now it was a slum. A glamorous fluorescent slum in spots and patches, a rickety bawdy slum in others. In some hot, bone-dry, bleached-out, chemical-stinking subsidences, lower than a slum, more a garbage-tip, a charnel house: the sink. The grave.

  The aristocrats of the great estates played about in the Slumopolis, getting their hands dirty, because that made it more fun to soap them afterward. The young princes purchased their prostitutes, their unnatural wines and their slum dinners here with the tech-credits that were worth more than jewels and metal. To attract the aristocracy, the Slumopolis prettied itself and evolved its entertainments. But for its own, mostly it had a sour and ugly face, an unwashed body, a foul tongue, and an illegal knife or a gas-gun in its sleeve. Even the sky was not the same as the sweet jade roof that overhung the estates and palaces farther out. The Slumopolis was closer to the Zenith, closer to the perimeter that marked off the interior circle of the planet. Here the sky was paler and more desperate looking. The sun, a ball of white howling matter, raged almost directly overhead. Inward from the perimeter, where the ring of the Yunea ended, stretched the unspeakable desert, less a land than a method of execution for murders. While outward the Slumopolis was girdled by desert of a milder kind. This outland, which divided the Slum from the inner boundaries of the great estates, was turned over to a back-breaking parody of agriculture. Sprawling crop fields were cut through by occasional fluid courses and tufted by plantations. Domesticated beasts were in evidence. Emaciated herds of antelines, wretchedly roped neck to neck, browsed from plant to plant at the canal sides, searching always for shade as they nibbled the acid stalks. Bands of humans toiled under movable shade roofs, sorting the powdery soil by hand or with plastum plows hauled by teams of dogga. To see an automatic machine was rare. The technology which sustained the palaces by ancient right extended only thinly into the Slumopolis and its adjacent staeds. In order to survive, men were reduced to primitive measures. They hated it, but spared small vitality to recrimination. They fleeced the aristocrats where they could, and spat after them and fawned on them, and somehow understood it was the correct order of things. Some twisted dream from the unremembered past still chained them. Some dream in which this had to be, and where the world kept its course only while the unjust order obtained, the broiling sun in its sky, the gods in their temples, the princes in their palaces, the slum dwellers in their brightly lit hell on earth.

  * * *

  • • •

  The journey, undertaken at varying speeds
and elevations to suit the terrain, lasted five hours. No vehicle, even the insectile aircraft of the palaces, was capable of lifting to any great height—technology’s provision against disrupting the upper layers of an erected atmosphere. For the most part, the transport of the Law traveled five or six feet clear of the ground, rising to twenty when the way was rough. No halts were made, not even at the boundary of the estates, where a wavering wall of electronic impulses was strung between columnar steel pylons. This wall ran in an irregular circle (as ran all the rings of life on the planet’s sunward face), describing for thousands of staeds the outer edge of the Slumopolis and containing it. The pylons marched through valleys and, in the perpendicular, up cliffs. Rarely was the geography itself so coarse that the barricade had been deemed superfluous. It was a prison wall, naturally, and no mistaking it. But, like every prison wall, it would open itself to permitted traffic. The aristocrats came and went as they pleased. The transport and its escort of horizontal rocket-formed Lawguards were also reflexively recognized. The wall neutralized itself to form an entry point. They passed through (Vel Thaidis unseeing in the windowless enclosure) and on to the baked plains of the Slumopolis outland.

  Here, metal roads ruled fiery lines across the veldt. Lowering itself almost to the earth, its speed tuned from a hundred to a hundred and fifty staeds per hour, with a hissing of its air jets, the shining cortège streaked zenithward.

  Along the verges, the herds of tamed antelines shied away, dragging each other by their ropes. Men and women, scattered in crawling groups on the crop fields beside the road, squinted briefly through their polarized lids and beneath the rims of wide shade hats. The firework-fast movements of the Law touched them with a mixture of frustrated curiosity and dread. The racing chariots of the aristocrats going slumming had a better reception. They stirred the more refreshing emotions of avarice and dislike.