by Oisin McGann
Solomon stared at it in disbelief, kneeling down and touching it tentatively before taking hold of it. It was heavy, a solid weight in his hand. He had never seen a real gun before, but there were plenty in the old films on the web. It was an automatic and, remembering from countless action films, he checked that the safety was on. It was a little switch on the left side of the pistol. Another catch on the bottom of the handle made the magazine – the clip – spring free, and he nearly dropped it. Through a slot on the side of the clip, he counted thirteen bullets. It was fully loaded. He slid the clip back into place in the handle of the gun, pushing it home with a satisfying click. Pointing it at the window, he aimed down the sights. He could see the top of his school, and he fired a few imaginary shots through the windows.
It looked fairly new; not manufactured like most things that were made before Ash Harbour, but machined, the angles and curves handmade. What was it doing here? The scarf was lying discarded on the chair, and in its folds he saw a piece of rice paper. He had been so entranced by the gun, he hadn’t noticed it. Unfolding it, he found a note, hastily scribbled in his father’s handwriting.
Sol. Keep this close to you. You’re in danger. Steer clear of the police, they can’t be trusted. I’ll come back for you soon.
Gregor.
Solomon sank onto the chair, trying to imagine what could possibly make his father give him a gun. Gregor despised guns. Sol was sure that he’d never used one himself, and yet here he was giving one to his son. Where did he even get it? He crumpled up the note and threw it into the recycler in the kitchen. Then he wrapped the gun back up in the scarf, pushed it down into the bottom of his bag and got changed for school.
Ana sat on the seat in the tram, half asleep, her head leaning against the pole that she held as the vehicle hummed down the street. It was crammed with people, and she knew that beneath the wheels the weight of the morning trams would be tilting the enormous gyroscopes that made up the central circles of the city. The trams worked in pairs, each moving up and down through different levels like a barge through a lock; the weight of each full one heading into the city helping to lift an empty one up to a higher level as it descended.
In other parts of the city, bridges and elevators carried people in the same way. Each person’s home was set a certain distance from their workplace, and their trip to and from work was roughly timed for best effect. It was part of a massive and intricate operation that kept energy running through Ash Harbour. Everything about the original parts of the city was carefully co-ordinated to produce and save that precious energy, the electricity and heat that made their way of life possible – just heating the freezing air pumped in from outside was an enormous drain. It all required careful timing and co-operation; but the people of Ash Harbour were well trained, the system having always been a part of their lives.
Ana looked out of the window, up at the dull light falling through a small section of the dome’s grey hexagonal grid. The daylighters were slowly clearing the snow, and there would be better light soon. Pigeons, one of the only breeds of bird left in the world, whirled in flocks under the dome; at night, bats would take their place. The dark morning depressed her, and she imagined what it must be like to live in some of the other domiciles around the planet. If there were any left – there had been no contact with anyone for years. Ash Harbour was the only one with a dome; all the rest were underground. Ana shivered at the prospect. The thought of a life without daylight was too awful to contemplate. The suicide rate in the city doubled whenever the light from the dome was completely blocked out by snow or cloud.
The architects of Ash Harbour had known the importance of sunlight. The catastrophic climate that had driven mankind into these protected enclaves could last for generations, and humans would need daylight to give them hope, and they would need a purpose to survive. And so the architects had created the dome . . . and the Machine.
The tram reached Ana’s stop, and she pushed through the close-pressed bodies to the sliding door. Hitting the button, she hopped down, feeling the bite of the cold air on her face. For a place with an artificial climate, the city could get a bit frigid at times. She must remember to ask Julio why that was. The Machine was running at close to full capacity; how could there not be enough heat? She didn’t remember it being this cold when she was young.
Alan Turing High School was a beige, utilitarian complex of reinforced concrete. Riddled with small windows, it was built to be well-lit and permanent. The outer walls were daubed with the colourful remonstrations of yet another generation of misunderstood youth. Two men dressed in conservative dark grey suits and long coats were standing across the street from the entrance to the school. They did not look like normal visitors. Shooting a glance at their faces, Ana saw that they were watching her as she made her way inside. Something about them made her nervous, but she shook the feeling off, annoyed at herself for being so paranoid.
The school was only one storey, but it nestled above several levels of streets and apartment blocks. The city’s architects had shown remarkable foresight in their construction of the building; whereas many blocks on the top levels had paved roofs that were used as yards and meeting places, the school had no roofs at all, except for the insulated awnings that could be drawn across. The students could look straight up at the dome, but the walls around them stopped them being distracted by the sights of the city. Wherever possible, the schools in the city were on the highest levels. Children were judged to be in greatest need of the sunlight. This privilege was one of the advantages that had drawn Ana into teaching.
She was always in before her students; she found they were more punctual if they knew she saw who arrived first, and who showed up last. Opening the register in readiness, she turned to the carbon board and started writing with her stylus. Her first class was 8C, for mathematics. They started to wander in, clumped in groups, or in ones and twos. Some of them muttered teenage greetings to her and she replied to each of them as they sat down at their desks. No class was ever in a good mood for the first lesson of the morning.
When the bell rang, they were all in, except one. She didn’t need to check the register to see who was missing.
‘Does anybody know where Sol is?’ she asked.
The police were waiting for Sol at the school entrance. Two serious-looking men in suits approached him as he walked up to the door.
‘Solomon Wheat?’ one of them asked.
‘Yes?’
‘Inspector Mercier – Criminal Investigation Section.’ The man showed him a badge. ‘I wonder, young sir, if we could ask you some questions about your father?’
Sol looked the man up and down, trying to show some attitude. His heart was pounding. Would they search him? How could he explain the gun in his bag? The policeman was a little taller than he was; clean cut, pale and weak in the chin. He had a neatly trimmed moustache, mousy hair parted on one side and slightly sunken eyes. The other man was larger, with a lantern jaw and no moustache, but otherwise the same. They probably even bought their clothes in the same place.
‘This is Sergeant Baiev.’ Mercier tilted his head in the direction of the second man.
‘I haven’t seen my father in three days,’ Sol told them. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘I wish we did, young sir. You see, I’m sorry to tell you that we have a warrant for his arrest. For the murder of a Mr Tommy Hyung, a fellow daylighter. Would you mind coming with us?’
‘Murder?!’ Sol exclaimed, stunned. ‘He can’t be . . . I mean . . . Murder?’
‘I’m afraid so, Mr Wheat. Now if you’d just come with us—’
‘I have a class—’
‘Your teachers will be informed. I’m sure they’ll understand.’
They led him to an unmarked black car parked on the corner. Baiev got behind the wheel, while Mercier sat beside Sol in the back. It was a black, blocky machine, and the engine sounded more powerful than a normal electric motor. Pulling away from the kerb, Baiev steered it i
nto the road, skilfully avoiding a group of teenagers on mopeds, and soon they were on the main western route, heading towards the closest section of city wall.
‘When was the last time you saw your father?’ the inspector asked him.
‘Wednesday morning . . . aren’t you meant to be recording this or something? I thought there was supposed to be a—’
‘You’re not under arrest, Mr Wheat. You’re just assisting us with our inquiries. Have you had any contact with your father since then?’
The school bag holding the gun was a heavy weight in Sol’s lap. The note had said not to trust the police.
‘No. I don’t know where he is.’
Mercier eyed him thoughtfully.
‘You have no need to be worried about our intentions, young sir. It’s merely our job to bring your father in. If he’s innocent, then he has nothing to fear from us.’
‘I don’t know where he is,’ Sol repeated. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To the station – this won’t take long. We’ll return you to school when we’ve completed the interview.’
‘I’m under eighteen. Shouldn’t I have somebody with me or something?’
‘We can assign you a social worker if you like. There’s a lot of red tape involved, though. Your mother’s deceased, isn’t that right? A tram crash? You lost your older sister in the accident too, according to the ISS file. A tragedy. I lost one of my sisters to cancer recently. Melanoma, very ugly. They used to be able to cure that, you know. We just don’t have the drugs now. But at least we were ready for it. A tram accident – now, that’s very sudden. Hard to take, I imagine.’
Sol hadn’t thought about Nattie and his mother for some time. It had been years since the accident. Gregor was his only family now. He hated this cop for bringing it up like this. His memories of his sister and his mother were fading treasures, recalled on quiet nights with a bitter mixture of fondness and distance. They were not for blunt discussion in the back of a police car.
The police station was twelve storeys high, with an observatory on the top floor and metal grids on the windows. This was not a local branch, it was the CIS headquarters; centre for all the major criminal investigations. Its grey and blue walls rose out of the clustered buildings around it, tall and imposing. The road took them up to the fourth floor, and Baiev stopped outside the door. Mercier gently ushered Sol from the car. For a moment Sol felt trapped. Some of the guys he trained with in the boxing club were regular visitors to police stations. They said there were weapons detectors on the doors.
‘You can leave your things in the car,’ Mercier told him.
Sol was not reassured; he was certain they’d search his bag. But they could do that anyway. He left the schoolbag on the back seat of the car and let the inspector lead him into the station.
The interior of the building was a straight-edged warren in light cream and white, with green tiled floors. Like most buildings in Ash Harbour, it was compactly constructed. The corridors were well lit, and there were notices up everywhere. Mercier led him past the front desk, where two officers were arguing with an enormous, pale-faced gangland type from the bottom levels, and a pair of irate Filipinos. The five raised voices echoed down the hallway as Sol and his guide made their way deeper into the building.
‘You will be safe here, Mr Wheat,’ Mercier told him. ‘Don’t let the atmosphere of the place alarm you. Or some of the people you see here, for that matter. There is nothing to be scared of.’
This did little to put Solomon’s mind at ease. There were holding cells along this corridor, and the heavy doors, with their small apertures, were an intimidating sight. At the end of the corridor Mercier opened a door and waved him in.
‘Ah, thank you, Inspector,’ a voice greeted them.
Beyond the door was a grey room with no windows, lit by a single diode cluster hanging from the ceiling. There were three men in the room, all in the dark red uniform of the ISS – the Industrial Security Section. These people had authority wherever affairs of the Machine were involved. Which was pretty much everywhere. If you were to believe the rumours, there was no love lost between them and the CIS. One of the men, obviously of the highest rank, gestured to Sol to sit at the bare table that occupied the centre of the room. Controls for a recorder were set into the top of the table at one end, and there was a chair on either side.
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ the first man said again. ‘We’ll take it from here.’
‘I’d like to sit in, if you don’t—’ Mercier began.
‘That won’t be necessary, thank you.’
Sol glanced back at Mercier, understanding the insistent note. Mercier – an inspector in the CIS – had just been tasked with delivering him. It was the Industrial Security Section that was in charge here. That must be pretty demeaning. The inspector’s face was frozen into a carefully neutral expression. He nodded and left, closing the door behind him. Sol turned to face the three men.
‘Have a seat, Mr Wheat,’ the first one told him. ‘I’m Inspector Ponderosa, this is Sergeant Koenig and Detective Collins. We just want to have a word.’
Sol sat down in the chair nearest him; the sound of its legs scraping across the floor was very loud in the small room. Sizing the officers up as if they were opponents in the ring, Sol let his eyes wander from one to the next. Ponderosa was a middleweight; his athletic build accentuated by the wine-coloured uniform and its black and silver trim. Under close-cropped, dense black hair, his rugged, good-looking face was spoiled by a mouth with the thin lips of a wound. Koenig was a light heavyweight; narrower than Ponderosa in build, but taller and with blond hair. Collins was red-haired, short, squat and burly; a heavyweight barrel of a man. The three officers studied him as if he were some mildly interesting subject in a laboratory. Then Ponderosa gave him a warm smile and took the chair opposite. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table.
‘As I’m sure Inspector Mercier has told you, we’re looking for your father,’ he began. ‘When was the last time you had any contact with him?’
His voice had a slightly high-pitched quality to it. Sol could imagine it getting annoying very quickly.
‘Wednesday morning – I told Mercier that already. I haven’t seen him since then. Who’s accusing him of murder?’
‘I’ll ask the questions,’ Ponderosa chided him gently. ‘Can’t have you stealing my thunder, now can I? You saw him Wednesday morning, before you went to school, is that right? He was on his way to work? And, if I’m not mistaken, he didn’t come home that night, or the following night. Am I right?’
Sol nodded.
‘What about last night?’
‘He . . . he didn’t come home either. I didn’t see him.’
Ponderosa’s face was almost expressionless. There was still a smile playing on the corner of that slit of a mouth, but it was no longer a friendly expression.
‘Have you had any contact with him at all since Wednesday? A phone call, a note to say where he was? Nothing?’
‘No.’
The room was stifling. There was nowhere to look that wasn’t solid and grey. Only the door: flat and featureless, and closed.
‘You must have been worried when he didn’t show up.’ Still the semi-smile from Ponderosa, with no trace of humour in sight.
‘He stays out some nights,’ Sol said softly.
‘Ah, yes. The ratting dens. I believe he’s a regular visitor to the fights in the Filipino District as well. Likes to bet a bit, your father, doesn’t he?’
Sol looked down at his hands, then glanced towards the door. They weren’t supposed to be allowed to interrogate him on his own like this, he was sure of it. He knew he should challenge them, but he couldn’t summon up the nerve.
‘We don’t care about that kind of crap, Solomon,’ Ponderosa said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘We’re just interested in anything your father might have said to you in the last few days. I can’t believe he wouldn’t have sent you some kind of message in that t
ime. Not even a note? No phone call?’
‘I said no.’
‘What about his friends? Have you talked to any of them?’ The ISS man stood up, walking round the table to bring his face closer to Sol’s. ‘Who is he most likely to confide in, do you think? I’d like you to give us a list of his friends, workmates – anybody your father trusts. He’s in real trouble here, Solomon. We can help him, but we have to find him first. We think he’s fallen in with some very nasty people. Help us find out who he might have talked to, and you’ll help him.’
His father didn’t trust anybody. Not really. He had a few friends, gambling mates, but Sol couldn’t think of anyone who . . . Murder. His father was being accused of killing somebody. It hit home for the first time. Sol couldn’t believe it; Gregor got into fights sometimes – he was difficult to get on with – but he wouldn’t kill anybody. At least, not on purpose.
‘How did it happen? The . . . the death,’ Sol asked falteringly. ‘How do you know it was my dad? He wouldn’t kill somebody, he just—’
‘At four sixteen p. m. on Wednesday afternoon’ – Ponderosa cut him off – ‘three witnesses say they saw your father severely beat Tommy Hyung – a fellow dome-maintenance technician – before throwing him off a catwalk into a piston well. The pistons were not operating at full speed, which is how they were stopped in time to save enough of Mr Hyung’s body to be positively identified. Well, from his dental records, anyway.’
The other two men were standing against the walls on either side of Sol now, and he threw furtive looks up at them. He glanced at the door again. It was the only way out of the room, and all three men were between him and it now. The balls of his feet were pressed against the floor, his legs bouncing up and down restlessly. He had his fingers knotted together and he stared down at his hands, crushing his fingers against each other.