City of Light

by J J Hane

  One of my favorite things to do in the city is to watch the old movies stored in the Martyrion archives. There are a lot of action films, which Abishai and I loved to go see after dinner whenever his mom would let us. Some of them were pretty ridiculous, but we still loved them. In those movies, death was always something quick, distant, and unimportant, unless it was the hero dying in some grand self-sacrifice.

  What I had just seen, only a few meters from where I had been hiding, was brutal, messy, and entirely undignified. I had never seen someone die before, and I had certainly never seen anyone gutted. I could not think of any words to describe what had just happened. Even then, I knew that I would never forget what I had seen.

  Despite everything else that would happen, I still haven’t forgotten the first time I saw death in all its brutality.

  Serenity led us further into woods covering the sprawling skeleton of the ancient city. I hadn’t realized how far we had gone until we reached the broken remains of the skyscraper we had seen on our way in that morning. It seemed like days had passed, when it had only been hours. We had been walking for quite a while when I finally came out of my thoughts. Serenity’s face was downcast, though she was still trying to hold onto her façade of indifference.

  “What happened back there?” I asked quietly.

  “Brandon was the leader of the Bay Tribe. He didn’t like Azrael taking over. He challenged him, he died. That’s it.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, as though it was a perfectly normal occurrence. Of course, I supposed that it was, but that didn’t make it any better.

  “Bay Tribe?” I repeated, fixing my loose thoughts on the one useless piece of data. “There’s no bay around here.”

  “One of those Old World things,” she explained. “There was a road sign in the middle of a bunch of buildings, most of them intact. That was their fortress before Azrael united most of the tribes.”

  “Does he…” I started to ask, unsure of even how to ask. “Was that… normal? Does that happen a lot?”

  “Tribes naming themselves after Old World ideas? Sure. Our own tribe is named after the mythical beast from old stories.”

  “What? Jackals aren’t mythical beasts. They’re like creepy dog-things in Africa or something”

  “What’s Africa?” she interjected with half-hearted curiosity.

  “It’s a really big continent. Anyway, that’s not what I meant.”

  Serenity frowned, looking down to kick at a little rock, sending it rolling away from us. “Violence is a big part of life here. We don’t practice fighting just because it’s fun to beat up city boys.”

  Her attempt at humor couldn’t make me smile as I thought about all the boys and girls I had seen practicing. For all their hard expressions, they were just as young as I was. They were training to fight, to die. That was not a thought I wanted in my head, yet it lodged itself there just the same.

  “It’s lucky Azrael killed him, really,” Serenity went on, her tone defensive. “If Brandon and his goons had made a move when Azrael wasn’t around it could have really got out of control.”

  “He just killed that guy!” I shouted suddenly. Serenity flinched, looking around with the fearfully observant eyes of someone who had grown up under the constant threat of danger.

  “I know he did!” she hissed. “What would you have had him do, Raphael? Talk it out? This isn’t the Martyrion! We don’t have the luxury of limitless food, water, medicine, power: all those things your people are willing to burn mine off the face of the earth to get at!”

  “What?” I asked, bewildered. “I didn’t mean-”

  She whirled to face me. “You don’t understand what life is like out here,” she said, getting in my face. “People die all the time. Disease, hunger, poisoned water, war, even that god-forsaken Archangel: it doesn’t matter! It all kills you just the same. Azrael isn’t a good man, but he is keeping the tribes from killing each other. It’s not like this is how I want to live! I hate it. It isn’t fair. But it’s what we have to do.”

  Serenity looked like she wanted to keep going, maybe even hit me again. Instead, she folded her arms tightly around herself and turned her back to me. “You don’t understand,” she said sullenly.

  I was quiet for a minute, just looking at her back. She was absolutely right: I didn’t understand.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, although I wasn’t really sure what I was sorry about. Just sorry that life sucked, I guess.

  It was enough for Serenity. She looked at me over her shoulder, meeting my eyes for only a second before giving a sharp nod. “We should keep moving.”

  #

  The rest of our journey passed in silence. Serenity turned back when we reached the buffer between the healthy, ploughed fields of the Martyrion and the dark, twisted forest that covered the remains of the ancient city. She practically vanished, without a word. I crossed the blasted land quickly, trying not to trip over the uneven, glassy ground.

  When I stepped onto the soft, tilled earth of the field, I felt a surge of relief. Tension I had been only vaguely aware of left my neck and shoulders. My stomach twisted, nearly emptying itself onto the soil. I bent over, leaning my hands on my knees, trying to breathe. My joints all felt shaky with the passing of adrenaline, leaving me a little light-headed.

  After a few minutes of recovering, I started walking back to the city. I took my time, trying to steady my breathing. Out of everything I had seen, the only image stuck in my mind was of Brandon gushing blood and worse.

  I reached the western farm gate, surprised to find it closed. I became aware that night had already begun to fall, not having realized until that moment how late it actually was. My whole sense of time was completely thrown off. It seemed like it should be another day entirely. Surely everything couldn’t have happened in one day?

  Taking out my passkey, I swiped the card through the lock by the smaller door beside the main entry. It hissed open, letting me inside. Just through the door were a pair of cameras. I moved my hand in a little wave that I hoped would be friendly and uninteresting. Security was definitely watching. I just hoped that they wouldn’t go back through their footage to see where I had come from. There was a reasonably good chance that one of them was already on the way to have a friendly chat with me about what I was doing out so late, and by myself at that.

  Instead of waiting around, I walked quickly into the grain storage facility, out through the rear entrance, and down a side street toward my home. Security already knew it was me who had come in, so they would know where to find me if they really wanted to look. The advantage of living in the most advanced city that has ever been is that our external security is good enough that we don’t worry about outlanders sneaking in. As a result, our security forces were often a little lax in their duties. I hoped that the ones monitoring the cameras would not want to track down a teenager just to scold him.

  When I got home, I went straight to the shower, careful to avoid any of the others who lived in the housing unit. Taking my shirt off in front of the mirror, I winced at the bruises Serenity had given me. Small she may be, but she was definitely a lot stronger than she looked. I wondered if I would be able to go a full day without her bruising me again.

  There was, of course, a simple way to ensure my bodily safety: I could simply choose not to return to the tribe. Serenity would be angry, but she wouldn’t likely be able to do anything about it. After all, the same systems that protected the entire city would, incidentally, keep me safe as well. That was a comforting thought…

  I decided to skip dinner that night. Normally, I would do just about anything to avoid missing a meal. Every time I thought about eating, though, my stomach rebelled at the image.

  For the second night that week, I found myself wandering the immaculate streets of the shining city, trying to avoid any interaction with anyone who might know me. When I passed the medical center I had twice stolen from, I felt the familiar stone of guilt in my chest. It was easy enough to rationalize away the cons
cious thoughts. I had stolen in order to help people who needed it. My foster family probably wouldn’t see it quite that way, but it was true, as far as I could tell. It was not so easy to get rid of the nagging guilt.

  Chapter 9

  For the second morning that week, Abishai began our conversation by demanding to know where I’d been.

  “I came by your unit five times yesterday,” he complained.

  I shrugged, trying not to look like I was avoiding eye contact as I took another bite of the synthetic eggs. “I was out.”

  Abishai had been lingering somewhat creepily outside the front door of our apartment when Mr. and Mrs. Moore were leaving. Every Sunday they would leave for their “breakfast meeting,’ during which, presumably, they would talk about such boring things as what their grown children were up to and when their foster kid would be getting out of the house.

  Mrs. Moore adored Abishai, considering him to be a good influence on me, despite all the evidence to the contrary. She had eagerly ushered him in while I was groggily making myself breakfast.

  “Behave, boys,” Mr. Moore said as they left. He wasn’t fooled by Abishai’s innocent smile.

  “Until midnight?” Abishai demanded, a little louder than what is strictly required early in the morning. “Because that was the last time I came by and you still weren’t there. I was starting to worry that the savages had kidnapped you.”

  I choked on my eggs. “Why would you think that?”

  Abishai rolled his eyes. “It’s a joke, Raph. Jeez, you are strung way too tight.”

  “You’re strung too tight…” I mumbled.

  “What’d you say?” Ab asked. He made a dismissive gesture without giving me a chance to answer. “Never mind, not important. Here’s what is important: I have the perfect thing to get you out of this mood of yours. You know how I’ve been trying to get an apprenticeship with the Archangel program?”

  “No, you’ve never mentioned it.”

  “Shut up. I was talking to Mr. Holt in our software engineering class. He told me that he’s going this afternoon to take a look at the Archangel control room. I guess there’s some glitch in the program or something, but he said I could come along! You are coming with me, Raphael Peregrine.”

  When his torrent of words finally lodged in my exhausted brain, I almost dropped my fork. “You got us into the control room?”

  Abishai crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair and grinning smugly at me. “If you can find the time…”

  “Yes!” I practically shouted, loud enough to possibly wake my neighbors. “Yes. Obviously. When?”

  Ab leaned forward, practically vibrating with excitement. “Just a couple hours from now. I’m going to meet Mr. Holt there.”

  I shoveled the last bits of food into my mouth before gathering up my plate and utensils, the troubles of the tribes already forgotten in my enthusiasm. Very few people ever got the chance to see the inner workings of the Archangel satellite system. No students ever got the chance to tour the control room.

  Abishai must have really impressed someone in order to get such an enormous honor. I glanced over at my friend, who was still happily grinning at his own success. He was apparently a lot smarter than I sometimes gave him credit for.

  Our morning passed slowly in anticipation and speculation. We each dressed in our nicest clothes. For Ab, that meant a deep blue suit bordering on a uniform that contrasted well with his darker skin. In my case, it was the green formalwear of the Agricultural Corps. Not exactly upscale, but it was the nicest outfit I owned. Being an orphan from beyond the walls did not come with a healthy financial position, at least from the perspective of Martyrion citizens.

  Standing at the base of the Martyrion Tower itself is always a little awe-inspiring. There is a reason that the entire city was named for that tower and not the other way around. It reaches up to the sky with simple, shining grace. The tower stood taller than anything left on the planet except for the mountains themselves, dwarfing the surrounding towers. I always got the impression that if I could stand on the top of the tower, the stars themselves would be within reach.

  Fitting, since the top of the tower was the receiver for all the power being collected from our solar system’s own resident star.

  We loitered outside the main entrance to the tower for nearly an hour, irrationally afraid that we would miss our opportunity to go into the most restricted area on Earth. Mr. Holt was, as always, perfectly punctual. When we saw the short, portly man with thinning silver-streaked hair, we both straightened our clothes, careful to ensure that there was not a speck of dust marring our appearances.

  “Morning, boys!” Mr. Holt called to us. Although he was regarded as one of the best programmers in the entire city, he spent much of his time teaching in the city’s secondary schools. He was, in fact, one of a very few teachers I had ever actually liked. “You’re here a bit early, eh?”

  “We just wanted to make sure we didn’t make you late,” I told him, using my best ingratiating voice.

  “Ha!” He had an easy laugh and a friendly, if a bit crooked, smile. “You could use some of that consideration during your daily classes, gentlemen.”

  Ab straightened his spine. “I am always on time to your class,” he pointed out.

  Mr. Holt nodded. “Yes, but I hear things from some of the other teachers. Nasty rumors about an incurably tardy young man, lazy despite showing promise. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you Abishai?”

  My friend shrugged, grinning. “I’ve heard about him. Supposed to be pretty good looking, too.”

  That drew another laugh from our teacher. “Alright, boys. Let’s head on inside, shall we?”

  I tried to keep the excitement off my face as we passed through the glass doors at the front. Despite their apparent fragility, the doors could withstand a bomb blast. It had been designed to protect the most important tower in the world during a time of civil collapse.

  Inside, the Martyrion was a mixture of elegance and practicality. The floor was some type of sturdy ceramic tile produced in the manufactories. I was fairly certain that there was some sort of rule about the glittering black design being restricted to the tower, because I have never seen it anywhere else. The support pillars were simple, gently curving metal posts that looked almost like miniature versions of the tower they upheld, giving the lobby area an open feel. A large wood desk sat against one wall, reminiscent of the corporate headquarters in old films.

  Behind it was a portrait of the founder of the Martyrion, Samuel Wilberforce. He had been a dark-skinned man, wearing a simple black-on-black suit of an outdated design. As in all the pictures I have ever seen of him, his bearing projected austerity mixed with kindness. A little silver cross hung from a thin chain at his neck, complementing the glitter of intelligence in his eyes. Even in a portrait, he looked like a solid, determined man. Two guards flanked the desk, looking bored, as a woman in an expensive suit worked the computer in front of her. When we approached, she looked up at Mr. Holt and smiled.

  “Welcome back, sir,” she said immediately, her voice perfectly precise. She looked Ab and I over without any change in her expression. “Two guests today?”

  “Yes, thank you, Sharon,” Mr. Holt replied. The secretary tapped a series of keys before handing him a pair of badges. Mr. Holt gave one to each of us, adding quietly, “stay on your best behavior, boys.”

  We went around the wall the desk was built against to a bank of elevators. There were two rows of five, facing each other across a wide hall. Mr. Holt pressed one of the call buttons. We did not have to wait long for the doors on one of the elevators to slide open with a little chime. Several important-looking people strode out, nodding respectfully to Mr. Holt and studiously ignoring the two young men he was escorting. Inside the elevator, Mr. Holt had to key in a security code to allow access to the control room. The elevator doors closed, there was a brief pause, and then it started moving upward.

  The acceleration was slow enough
that I didn’t lose my balance, but barely. Whatever override code Mr. Holt had used, it sent our metal cage hurtling up to the control room without stopping to wait on anyone else.

  Archangel Control was located nearly as close to the top of the tower as it could be, not far below the power receiver. It would have provided an excellent view of the city below if it wasn’t for the fact that it was also heavily protected by layers of reinforced walls. The control room had been built as a technological fortress, able to withstand any attack the last age could have brought against it.

  I took a steadying breath when the elevator slid to an abrupt halt, waiting anxiously to see what lay beyond the doors. When they opened, I was not disappointed.

  We stepped out onto an elevated walkway that ran in a half-circle around a big room designed like an amphitheater. Three successive levels of curving computer consoles, occupied by dozens of staff, surrounded much of the room. One large section of the wall was taken up by a screen the size of one of the large screens in the movie theater. It was divided into several small images along the borders, with one large image showing a map of the entire world and the current relative locations of the Archangel satellites.

  “Come on, boys,” Mr. Holt said after allowing us a moment to gape. “If you don’t close your mouths, birds will fly in there and make nests! Ha!”

  A man in the black-on-black uniform of a Martyrion official approached us. He was a tall, spindly man with features that could charitably be called elegant. His reddish-brown hair was long, greased and pulled back into a small knot on the back of his head. I thought he was glaring at us until he spoke, at which point I realized his face had been designed to be set in a natural and permanent scowl.

  “Abraham,” he said solemnly, offering his hand to our teacher. “Thank you for coming.”