“But she hates me!” Second Son struggles to keep his voice in a lower register.
“Nonsense. She merely despises your weakness. And rightly. It is your unwillingness to take the necessary steps to becoming a man that incites her to tease you the way she does. If you are strong, she will respect you.”
“I’ve tried, Father. She still terrorizes me!”
“She does not ‘terrorize’ you.” Orcus turns his head. In profile, his head reminds Second Son of a crowbar, running almost in a straight line from the tip of his nose to his forehead before curving around his smooth cranium. “You have no idea what terror is.”
“What about the time she set that snare for me, so that I was left hanging by my feet in the family room? Have you forgotten that?”
“No.” The barest figment of a smile creases his father’s face. “I remember.”
Second Son feels his cheeks turn red with shame.
“You should not have fallen into that trap,” his father says. “In the future, you will encounter other traps of different types from less benign sources. You must learn to evade them all.”
Second Son throws himself on the couch, arms crossed. What can he say? How can he make his father understand? He cannot carry this burden. It is impossible.
“Stop sulking. You could do much worse. Your mother wasn’t much of a woman, but I married her. I saw where my duty lay, and I followed it. You have things much easier. My duty was a sacrifice, but yours should be a pleasure, really. Dancer is smart. She’s beautiful. She’s ambitious.”
“She’s not as beautiful as she thinks she is.”
“Listen, boy, you just have to marry her, let her bear children — keep the name of Orcus alive. No one said you have to be faithful to her. Hell, I’d have gone mad if your dull-witted mother was the only woman I ever charvered.”
“Stop talking about Mother like that.”
“What does it matter? She’s with the Stone now. And probably happier for it. What about that girl you’re always mooning over? The skinny one with the green hair?”
“Amarantha.” Second Son squirms in his seat, thinking of her.
“That’s the one. She’s a bit dull, but she seems worth a little trouble. You can still sleep with her, as long as you’re careful.”
“If she wants me.”
“If she wants you?” His father’s voice rises in indignation. “Hump, you’re null-class, an Orcus! What she wants is immaterial.”
His father’s use of the humiliating nickname is a deliberate insult. Second Son tries to ignore it. “It’s not that simple,” he says.
“Make it that simple. Damn it, son! I’m offering you the world, don’t you see?”
“Dancer wasn’t meant for me, Father! She was meant for Stone.”
Orcus crosses the floor in two long strides and grabs Second Son by the bicep, hauling him to his feet. “In case you haven’t noticed, Hump,” he hisses, “your elder brother is dead!” His fingers dig into Second Son’s flesh. “And as absurd as it sounds, you must take his place!”
“Stop it!” Second Son cries. “You’re hurting me!”
“Koba’s eyes, you’re pathetic!” Orcus drags Second Son to the door and pushes him through. “Get out. I have work to do.”
Second Son stumbles around to face his father, desperate for one last attempt. “Father, it’s unseemly for a man to marry an older woman. Can’t I marry Second Daughter instead?”
His father glowers down at him. His bulk nearly fills the doorway. “No,” he says. “In five days you and your older sister will be married. The decision is made!” He slams the door in Second Son’s face.
Second Son stares at the door, catching his breath, waiting until his pulse returns to normal. Glancing around to make sure no one is watching, he retreats down the hall and locks himself in the servant’s laundry alcove. He likes how small the room is, how secluded. When he is here, he has no problems, no connection to the world outside. He sits on the floor, hidden between the machines and a gigantic pile of clothes, nestling into them, inhaling their earthy scent. He unclips his portable monitor from his belt and activates it. The screen flickers to life, still attuned to the camera he was watching last time — the camera he always watches — and he smiles. On the screen, a young man and woman are making love. The woman is lying flat upon a bed, head back and eyes closed, with her long green hair spread out around her like a web, like a halo of fissures in fractured crystal . . . He watches them for a long time, relishing the sickly feeling in his stomach as his excitement curdles and his anger grows, meditating carefully on his father’s advice.
TWO LIFETIMES
Amarantha Kirton watches Cadell’s backside with approval as he crosses the room to pour her a glass of water. He catches her watching him, and there is a hint of a swagger on his way back. “Now that was something special,” he says as he hands her the cup and slips back into bed.
Amarantha sips the water and smiles. “You have a high opinion of yourself, don’t you?” she teases.
“A high opinion of us,” Cadell says, stretching languidly across the bed, kicking against the sheets that have bunched up at its foot. Like other fashionable young men in the Hypogeum, he shaves the hair above his forehead into a widow’s peak while wearing the rest pulled back in a long ponytail. His face is narrow and handsome, with the untroubled smoothness of youth. He rests his head on Amarantha’s naked stomach.
She leans back, running her fingers through his hair, and takes a deep breath, enjoying the moment. They have free time ahead of them: two chronons till lights-out, and two lifetimes after that. The future for them is unwritten, limitless, and dizzying in its possibilities. Resting her hand on Cadell’s head, she looks absently at the ceiling. She imagines it peeling away, like a sheet of paper, floating off in the breeze and rising all the way to the Sky, the steel dome roof of the Hypogeum. She sees the Sky crack along its seams and crumble, great chunks of broken metal tumbling and disintegrating into dust. Beyond is the Stone, which according to the tenets of orthodox Geospiritualism extends forever. Amarantha watches as it splits apart, fissures racing through it at the speed of sound until it shatters in a crackle of blinding white energy, revealing . . . what?
Anything. It could be absolutely anything at all.
Her attention is drawn back to mundane dimensions by the soft whirring noise of the camera on the ceiling as it refocuses on them. The black hemispheres — each exactly the size of a human eye — are normally silent, but this one has lately developed a personality, as if it were a third person in their lives: an intrusive, dull-witted cousin. Cadell, feeling her body tense, raises his head. She tries to erase the look of anger on her face, but she is too slow.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
“Those things,” she says, gesturing toward the camera. “Watching us every moment of our lives.”
“Don’t think about it,” he soothes. “You’ll only upset yourself.”
“I hate them,” she whispers. “I wish we could tear the damn things down.”
Cadell sits up, pulling the blankets with him and covering their bodies. “They’re just doing their jobs, the same as the rest of us. Besides,” he adds more quietly, “you can’t get anywhere in this world if you make them angry at you.”
“All right.” She kisses his forehead. “Lay down. I’ll be good.”
Cadell frowns, not trusting her reassurances but uncertain what else to do. He rests his head on her shoulder and closes his eyes.
Amarantha knows that Cadell does not understand her anger toward the Scrutators. His confusion is her own fault. She has told him that she once spent time with Second Son, whose family controls the cameras, and she told him that it did not go well, but she never told him, or anyone, just how bad it had been.
It had happened more than a year before. Amarantha was a beautiful young woman newly introduced to the social scene. Her family was neither famous nor rich, though by the complicated rules of birth and occupat
ion they were still primaries. Amarantha and her mother carried the extra burden of being Engineered, part of a failed attempt to improve the genetic strain of the Hypogeum. “It’s the tossed salad haircut,” the other women whispered when they thought she wasn’t listening, but she knew they spoke out of jealousy. With her combination of beauty, energy, and charm, she outshone them all.
Then one day she learned that she had attracted the attention of Second Son. She never understood why Second Son had taken an interest in her. Perhaps he was titillated by the idea of consorting with a woman of lesser rank, or perhaps it was because she was Engineered. At any rate, the opportunity to meet such a prestigious young man was too intriguing to pass up, even if he was a few years younger than she was.
He treated her to a delicious private dinner, danced badly with her, then showed her the view from the Chandelier. By that time, despite the attention he lavished on her, she was beginning to regret accepting his invitation. Second Son was a boor. He talked incessantly about himself, and he treated his many servants with appall-ing rudeness. Finally, as she was trying to find a polite way to cut the date short, he ushered her into one of the Orcus family suites and shut the door behind them. He threw himself on her, kissing her neck and fumbling with the clasps of her dress. To this day, she doesn’t remember how she extricated herself, what she said to Second Son to make him let her go. What she does remember is Second Son lying on the floor and sobbing about his family, his dying brother, and his own powerlessness. Amarantha had listened for as long as she could stand it, then fled.
He commed her the next day. Six times. She refused to answer.
The day after that he sent a messenger. She sent him away.
The day after that he sent a different messenger. She sent that one away as well.
Finally he showed up at the electrical station where she worked. She almost felt sorry for him; she knew that it was a terrible blow to his ego for a null-class citizen to have to personally call on a person of lesser rank. She took a walk with him. They talked. Mindful of his connections, frightened by his family, she was polite and tried not to be angry. Perhaps, she thought, they could be friends.
But it hadn’t worked. Second Son didn’t know how to simply be friends with anyone. He would visit, then stare at her for long periods without saying anything. When he finally spoke, it would be long and convoluted arguments about how much he loved her, how they should be together.
She began to spend her nights at the homes of friends, hoping to elude him. Rather than giving up on her, as she hoped he would, he only increased the number of gifts and messages he sent to her.
Finally, in desperation, she told him she couldn’t stand him and that she never wanted to see him again. He screamed and threatened, displaying the famous Orcus temper. When he saw she couldn’t be moved, he stormed out, swearing she wasn’t worth his time anyway. Things should have ended there, but the suspicion that Second Son hasn’t given up so easily lingers in Amarantha’s mind. Sometimes she answers the ring of the comm only to find that the line is blank. Other times one of the cameras focuses on her, at home, at work, or in a crowd, and somehow she knows, just knows, that Second Son is watching her.
Cadell, who has fallen asleep beside her, begins to snore. Smiling, she tucks the covers under his chin and upbraids herself for her paranoid thoughts. Surely Second Son has forgotten her. Surely, with his marriage to his sister, Dancer, only a few days away, he has more important things on his mind.
She snuggles in close to Cadell, putting her arm around him. She closes her eyes, envisioning the sky beyond the Sky.
SILVER FINGERTIPS
Edward Penn runs frantically down the crowded, narrow hall, knocking people out of his way. He skids to a stop outside Mosley’s room. Gripping the doorjamb, he scans the room, looking for a telltale shimmering in the air.
“Is he here yet?” he asks. Mosley’s two sons stand up. Their mouths hang open, but they say nothing. The helpless look on their faces indicates that they know what his question means.
“Is he here?” he repeats. They look around, uncertain. The air in the room is quiet and still. Mosley, a middle-aged man peppered with lymphoma, lies asleep in the bed, his head bent in an awkward pose. He snores softly. The sickly sweet odor of human decay hangs about him.
Edward pushes past the stupefied young men and unlocks the wheels on Mosley’s bed. “Help me push him out of here,” Edward says. “Maybe we can get him to another room before the Deathman comes.” “I am here.”
The cold, quiet voice comes from a spot just behind Edward. He turns and sees that corner of the room darken and sink into a black hole. The hole twists and buckles into the shape of a man. Edward gives an involuntary gasp. He has been standing next to the Deathsman the whole time. He lets go of the bed. It continues to turn slowly, finally bumping to a halt against the wall.
The Deathsman stands utterly still, his body hidden within the folds of his black, floor-length cloak. His tight hood is completely featureless, without even holes for his eyes. He is more silhouette than man. The only decoration is an ornate silver filigree around his collar. “There’s been a mistake,” Edward says, keeping his voice as level as possible. “This man is in good shape, with an excellent prognosis.”
“The Brotherhood of Peace and Reconciliation thinks otherwise, Doctor.” The Deathsman’s voice is strangely atonal. His jaw does not move beneath the hood. “Please step aside.”
“You can’t have him.”
“Doctor, you may recall that you signed an agreement when you joined this hospital. My authority supercedes yours in this case.”
“I also took an oath.”
The faintest touch of impatience creeps into the Deathsman’s voice. “This confrontation is futile, Doctor, as well as unseemly. Think of the children.” The Deathsman turns his head in the direction of Mosley’s sons on the other side of the bed. The younger one has begun to cry.
“I am thinking of them.”
The Deathsman slips one hand silently out from beneath the black cloak. Thin, bright wires trace across it, flowing in arcane circuit patterns toward the fingertips encased in silver. He flexes his hand to make sure Edward understands the implied threat. “I will ask you once more to step aside.”
Edward faces the Deathsman silently, and considers his options. Though the Deathsman has not moved, Edward can see his jaw clench beneath his tight hood, his body tense for a confrontation. Edward will either have to back down or try to physically keep the Deathsman away from his patient. It seems unlikely Edward would win such a struggle. Equally remote is the hope that he could convince the Deathsman to walk away. The dark figure is as implacable as the murder he carries in his fingertips.
Edward turns to Mosley’s children. “There’s one more test I want to perform. Help me pull down the covers.”
“Really, Doctor . . .” But as the Deathsman speaks, Edward spins and throws a punch at his hooded face. Seemingly unsurprised, the Deathsman whispers backward, his cloak billowing around him so Edward’s fist glances off his shoulder. As if in defiance of physics, the Deathsman bobs forward again. His silver-tipped hands shoot forward. Edward manages to grab the hands by the wrists. He grapples with the Deathsman, fighting to keep the hands away from his body.
“Help me!” he shouts to Mosley’s sons. The boys watch dumbly.
While Edward’s face is turned, the Deathsman bends one hand down. Silver fingertips brush lightly against the back of Edward’s hand. Edward feels a tingle travel through his body. As if watching from a distance, he sees his arm fall to his side, numb and lifeless. The Deathsman’s free hand lunges out, cold fingertips gripping Edward around the temples.
Edward’s jaw drops. His eyes unfocus. The Deathsman be-comes two figures watching him impassively. The room rolls drunkenly as Edward’s knees buckle. Though he cannot feel it, he knows he must be falling. The room seems to bounce on his way down, and he realizes he has hit his head on something hard. Straining his faculties,
he is aware of a sensation somewhere around him. It may or may not be pain. He cannot remember what it is like to feel things.
His vision goes next. The green linoleum floor, tilted like a wall, shrinks to a bright pinprick as if the universe is traveling away from him at an astonishing rate of speed. His breath leaks from his lungs. A brief surge of fear for what must follow washes over him before he finally loses consciousness and the darkness envelops him.
ALMOST ZERO
“. . . but first I have to cross half that distance, right? And then I have to cross half the distance that’s left. And then I still have to cross half the distance that’s left. And so on and so on. No matter how far I go, I still have half the distance left to cross. And so I have proved that motion is impossible.”
Orel Fortigan smiles. Bernie is always coming up with brainteasers like this. Maybe since they replaced his right frontal lobe with microchips, he feels a need to show what he can do with all that computing power.
They stand close together at the bottom of a narrow shaft. Despite the chill, the concrete walls drip with condensation. A single globe on the wall provides the only illumination. The air vibrates from the roar of pressure outside.
Bernie closes the access panel. His jumpsuit whispers around his gaunt body as he stands. He wipes his hands with a rag from his back pocket. “Well, am I right or am I wrong?” he asks. Bernie doesn’t open his mouth much when he speaks. The artificial voicebox they gave him when the cancer took his real one does all the work for him. Besides, if he opens his mouth too wide, you can see the inside of his face between his cheek and his carbon steel jaw.
Orel doesn’t mind. He’s no joy to look at himself. He is overweight and suffers from cloracne, an immune disorder that has turned large portions of his face and upper torso into a mass of pustules and raw flesh. He wears a red scarf around his neck and chin to cover the worst of it. “I’m thinking,” he says.
“Let’s do our job while you’re thinking. You said there was a problem in Gimmel Eight?”
Steel Sky Page 3
