Steel Sky

by Andrew C. Murphy

  “Relax.” Amarantha leans back against the handrail, smiling and serene. Despite her misgivings about Second Son, she loves a party. “You were the one who kept saying what a big occasion this is. If it’s that important, it’s worth a little investment.”

  “You don’t think it’s too . . . subdued?”

  “Trust me. The Rakehells pretend to be revolutionaries, but it’s all an act. They’re really just young conservatives who like an excuse to get together and party. They’ll love you.”

  Amarantha wears a dress of pale orange that brings out the green of her hair. Her shoulder pads curl into crescents, framing her oval face, and her sleeves end in points along the back of her hands, accentuating her long fingers.

  Impulsively, she puts an arm around Cadell and squeezes. She kisses his cheek. “I’m very proud of you, you know.”

  The doors of the lift open with a pneumatic sigh. They step into the hall. A big man scans their idents. He grunts in approval, and the ornate doors swing open. The sounds of the party wash over them.

  The Discroom is vast, fifteen meters high and nearly a hundred wide, encompassing an entire floor of the main bubble of the Chandelier. The glass and chrome room has several levels, so that no matter where they look, something is happening. Above their heads, crystal mobiles twist themselves continuously into new shapes, and somewhere a synthesizer is inventing music.

  Guests, all primary or null-class citizens, meander in a riot of colored costumes. Slim, wedge-shaped robots called slipstreamers move among the partiers, floating on a cushion of electrostatic fields. Their long, polythene tails weave intricate patterns that hang, seemingly motionless, in the air, then disappear as the streamers move on. Above the crowd, acrobats fly on wires, silhouetted against the great glass wall with its spectacular view of the Hypogeum. The party has been in progress for several chronons already, allowing people who live in all the different lifeshifts to attend. It will continue long after they are gone.

  Cadell lifts two glasses from a passing gyrot, which weaves drunkenly on its single wheel, then spins off to serve the other guests. Cadell takes a sip and passes the second drink to Amarantha. A rare treat: the punch is flavored with that amusing blend of chemicals known as “fruit.”

  They move among the crowd, greeting friends and exchanging pleasantries. Cadell speaks little. He smiles to himself as he watches Amarantha mingle. Small talk, which is so difficult for him, is Amarantha’s joy. She acts like she’s an old friend with everyone she meets, quickly finding interests in common with even the dullest people. She charms them with her beauty and easy grace. Even Cadell’s old friends tend to look more at her than at him in a conversation.

  A white-haired woman in bright yellow and green walks up to them. Her mandilion, the short cape that marks her as a member of the Prime Medium, is noticeably worn and stained. It is a symbol of prestige, indicating the length of time she has served.

  She clicks idents with Cadell, who has to lean forward quickly to avoid spilling his drink on her. “Hello, Madame Mediary,” Cadell says. Unbelievably, he realizes he cannot remember the woman’s name.

  “Hello, Mrs. Fries,” Amarantha says, stepping in, “How is Johan?”

  Cadell smiles. Saved again.

  “Fine, thank you,” the Mediary says, grinning. “And how are you? Your name is Amarantha, am I right?”

  “I’m flattered, Madame Mediary.” Amarantha smiles. “You must remember Cadell, as well.”

  The Mediary turns back to Cadell. “Oh, yes. You were one of the ghosts who worked on Referendum 1487, right? I liked your wording.”

  “Thank you,” Cadell says. As a ghost, his job is to write copy for the referendums, without which no law can be passed in the Hypogeum. It’s painstaking labor. The art of it lies in choosing the precise wording by which a proposal can be rendered inoffensive enough to garner the most votes from the indifferent populace while still having teeth enough to actually be of some use should it be approved. It’s not unusual for as many as twenty ghosts to work on a single referendum.

  “You know,” he says, swirling his drink in his hand. “It’s not going to work.”

  The Mediary’s eyebrows rise. “What do you mean?”

  “Referendum 1487 is only a stopgap. The people will outgrow the new housing in a year or two. Something more radical is needed.”

  “If you’re saying you’ve come up with a new way to ask for mandatory sterilization, I’m all ears.”

  “No, I was thinking more along the lines of draining the Sunken Neighborhoods.” Cadell speaks slowly and confidently. The alcohol is glowing in his head with the special luminance that comes before actual drunkenness sets in. “There’s more room in them, and it’s dangerous to leave them flooded anyway.”

  “It can’t be done. The cost in materials alone is prohibitive.”

  “But surely you agree something ought to be done about them.”

  “When you’ve been in politics as long as I have, young man, you’ll come to realize that there’s a great difference between what ought to be done — even what has to be done — and what can be done within the system. If you have a proposal to show me, I’ll look it over. In the meantime, I have other things to worry about.” She bows briefly to Amarantha. “A pleasure,” she says and walks away.

  Cadell finishes his drink in a single gulp, suddenly overcome with self-pity. “Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Amarantha says. “You can’t be anyone other than yourself.”

  “No, she was right. What do I know, after all? I don’t have any real experience.” He looks out the great curved window at the city below. “Next time a Mediary says ‘Hello,’ I should be smart and just confine my conversation to platitudes and empty compliments.”

  “Uh huh. Look, your Rakehell buddies are standing over there.”

  “Where? Oh, I see them.”

  The Rakehells are milling in a pack on the other side of a plasma fountain. The coruscating needles cast a flickering carnelian glow across their lean bodies. Amarantha frowns. “They’re looking this way and talking. But they’re not coming any closer.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “It’s rude, that’s what it is.” She takes Cadell’s hand. “I’ve always gotten an odd feeling around them, Cadell. I don’t think they’ve ever really accepted you. Not really.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m very popular with them. There wasn’t a single objection to my initiation.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t trust them.”

  “Okay, okay.” Cadell looks through the fountain at the Rakehells. He should go greet them.

  “Just make sure they don’t take advantage of you,” Amarantha says. “Don’t make those eyes at me, listen to what I’m saying. You work too hard for them, and I don’t see them giving you anything in return.”

  “Will you lay off? These are my friends you’re talking about.”

  Amarantha opens her mouth to argue, then smiles instead. “Sorry. I’ll be good. I’m just worried about you.” She watches Cadell’s face drop. “What’s the matter?”

  “I just spotted Second Son. And he’s spotted us.”

  “Shit.”

  “Here he comes.”

  TERMINUS

  “Marta, please cancel all my appointments for the next chronon. I’ll be out. I don’t know where I’ll be.”

  Edward’s secretary makes a disapproving face and dramatically draws her lightpen across the scheduling panel, scratching out the appointments. She gives the Deathsman a withering look as the door shuts behind them.

  “I don’t think your secretary likes me,” the Deathsman says as they get on the elevator.

  “Frankly,” Edward says, “you smell.”

  “Do I? I was wondering why you insisted we leave the hospital.”

  “That, and also I thought it would be best that, as a healer, I not be seen talking to . . . death.”

  “I understand. You have a reputation to mai
ntain. Although I don’t think anyone would recognize me out of uniform.”

  They attach their respirators and cycle through the airlock. They walk across the bridge connecting the hospital to one of the main thoroughfares.

  “You haven’t told me your name,” Edward says.

  “We of the Brotherhood do not have names. To have personal identities would be unseemly. As individuals we are insignificant. It is our participation in the larger unity that is our pride.”

  “I see.” Below the bridge, a patchwork of rooftops descends at odd angles into darkness. Steam rises from the lowest levels.

  “Thank you for taking the time to see me,” the Deathsman says. “I hope you believe me when I say that I’m not a threat to you. I’m not here in my professional capacity.”

  “Then why did you come to visit me?”

  “Curiosity. Your behavior when last we met intrigued me. My attentions are rarely resisted with such vehemence. Was the man related to you?”

  “No. He was just a patient.”

  “Were you expecting some sort of miraculous recovery? A sudden, unprecedented reversal of metastasis?”

  Edward takes a deep breath. “No. I could have prolonged his life, but not saved it.”

  “And you knew this.”

  “I knew it.”

  “And yet you risked your life to save this stranger. Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Edward massages his temple with his fingers. His headaches are getting worse, as if his brain is a door that someone is pounding to get in. “Being a doctor means watching people die,” he says quietly. “You only see people who are sick, and the better doctor you are, the sicker they are when they come to you. You treat them, and you get to know them, and then you watch them waste away. Sometimes there’s something you can do, sometimes there isn’t. Sometimes you hope maybe this time there’s a chance. And then one day they’re gone, and somebody else takes their place.”

  He sighs. “I just had to do something, you see? I couldn’t let it happen again.”

  The Deathsman nods, his lips pursed, bony head bouncing on its long neck. “You see death as a failure, something to be shunned at all costs. But there is another viewpoint, Edward. In the Brotherhood, we look at death as something glorious. We consider the moment of death — what we call the terminus — to be the quintessential summation of a man’s life. Whether he departs this world at peace, or in a rage, or in sorrow, is a testament to his life as a whole. It is a moment of unalloyed truth, and it is our duty to encourage our client’s fullest expression.

  “Edward, none of us live forever. And if people allowed themselves awareness of the shortness of their lives, then maybe they would make more of them.”

  “You’ll pardon me if I don’t see things that way.”

  “Our interests are not in conflict, Edward. They are complementary. My duty begins where yours leaves off.”

  CONTRADICTION IN TERMS

  “Amarantha! By Koba’s eyes, you look lovely!” Second Son says, clapping his hands on Amarantha’s shoulders. Cadell takes a deep breath, fighting the urge to peel Second Son’s hands away. Fortunately, Second Son releases her before the urge becomes uncontrollable. Personal space is highly valued in the Hypogeum and is not violated lightly.

  “How are you, my dear?” he asks as she moves away a bit to click idents.

  “Cadell and I are doing quite well, thank you.”

  Second Son is wearing a gigantic cape with multicolored pinions that swing pendulously as he turns to face Cadell. “Hello,” he murmurs.

  “That’s quite a costume,” Cadell says with a smile.

  “Yes.” Second Son looks at Cadell blankly. Cadell can see that only bluster has carried Second Son this far and now he is stuck. Cadell almost feels sorry for him. Almost.

  “Where’s your fiancée?” Amarantha asks.

  “In a few days we’ll be seeing each other every day for the rest of our lives. No need to overdo it now.” Second Son smiles weakly, seemingly glad for an excuse to stare at Amarantha again. His mouth hangs open with undisguised hunger. What, Cadell wonders, did Amarantha ever see in this man, to have dated him even once?

  “We’re very happy for you, Second Son,” Amarantha says, “A good marriage is a treasure, my mother used to say.”

  “Huh. My mother used to say that a good marriage is a contradiction in terms.”

  An awkward pause follows. Cadell can almost hear Second Son trying to think of what to say next.

  A bass voice over their shoulders breaks the silence. “Thraso spotted his good friends Cadell and Amarantha,” the voice booms. “He went over to greet them.”

  Cadell steps aside to let Thraso, one of the senior Rakehells, join the circle. “He said his hellos to them both,” Thraso says, taking Amarantha’s hand in his, “lingering over the beautiful Amarantha, who was looking especially radiant.”

  “Thank you . . . I think,” Amarantha says, casting a quick, questioning look at Cadell.

  “Thraso has decided to narrate his memoirs,” Cadell explains. “Continuously.”

  “Everything they said was being recorded,” Thraso says, patting a small box clipped to his hip. Thraso has a long, unhandsome face made beautiful by sharp eyes and full, curved lips. “His friends thought it was an excellent idea. The life of one destined for greatness deserved to be meticulously documented.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Amarantha says, smiling over her drink.

  “Thraso greeted Second Son,” Thraso says. “He complimented Second Son on his outrageous outfit, although privately he thought it was in questionable taste.”

  “Huh? What did you say?” Second Son sputters.

  “They made small talk for a while,” Thraso announces, “and then Thraso told Cadell he had some important information to discuss. In private.”

  Cadell looks questioningly at Amarantha, who shrugs.

  “The others moved away politely,” Thraso says.

  Second Son bounces forward and puts his hand on Amarantha’s shoulder. “Let’s give them a moment,” he says, turning her away. Cadell marvels at his daring. If anyone else tried to touch her like that, Amarantha would take his hand off at the wrist. She would probably do it to Second Son, too, he realizes. She is being polite for Cadell’s sake, because she knows how important it is to him that she not antagonize someone so well-connected.

  Thraso takes Cadell’s arm and they move in the opposite direction. “Amarantha is a remarkable woman, Thraso said.”

  “I know,” Cadell says, looking backward briefly.

  “Actually, Thraso said, I like you better since you met her.”

  Cadell nods. Other people have said the same thing. “We’re good for each other. I’m very lucky.”

  “Thraso hoped that one day he, too, would be so lucky and find such a woman for himself.”

  Cadell smiles. Thraso’s predilections do not run toward women. “I like your outfit,” Cadell says, to change the subject.

  Thraso is dressed in an almost featureless trapezoid, running from wide, starched shoulders down to ankle cuffs. Skin-tight sleeves protrude from the front.

  “Thraso thanked him,” Thraso says, “but wondered to himself if Cadell was truly sincere, or if he was merely flattering.”

  Cadell thinks about it. “I don’t really know which it is.”

  “Thraso laughed,” Thraso says without laughing. “That was the best kind of flattery — when even the flatterer himself did not know if he was lying or not.”

  Cadell looks at his feet. Thraso’s remark has hit a sore point. Cadell considers Thraso a good friend, but what if Thraso were not his superior, if it were not to his advantage to be his friend? He doesn’t know.

  Thraso puts his arm around Cadell’s shoulder. “Thraso liked Cadell,” he says. “His honesty amused him.”

  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “The time for chitchat had passed,” Thraso announces, looking up at the ceiling. “Thraso looked his friend i
n the eye and told him that he had decided to make him one of Thraso’s personal lieutenants.”

  Cadell stops short. “Really?”

  “It was primarily a ceremonial title, Thraso reminded him, but it looked great on a resumé.”

  “Thank you, Thraso. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Thraso shook his hand and congratulated him.”

  HISTORY LESSON

  At the other end of the hall, Dancer is being toasted by friends and strangers. After each toast, someone else offers another. Dancer raises her glass and drinks, her smile growing less gracious each time. Her mind is spinning from the shampagne, and her new earshells are so large they threaten to throw her off balance every time she turns her head. The toasts keep coming, even from those people who know how much Dancer and her brother despise each other. Dancer watches these people with a cold eye, remembering them. Finally she manages to convince the crowd to let her go. They applaud again as she slips off.

  In a corner, her current lover, a whip-thin man in a black velour cover-up, is waiting for her.

  “By the Stone,” she says, “what a bore this is.” Unceremoniously she sits on the floor. A stitch pops in her tight, scarlet dress.

  He smiles, still leaning against the wall. “People are such idiots.”

  “You know,” she says, “it reminds me of a story I heard once about Koba, back when he was at the height of his power. Every time he gave a speech before the Assembly, they gave him a standing ovation. Koba would usually listen for a while, then silence them with a wave of his hand.

  But one time, for some reason, he just stood there while they applauded. He gave no signal to stop. So the people clapped and clapped. They clapped for five centichrons, then ten, then fifteen. Their arms began to ache, and they looked at each other nervously, but no one wanted to be the first to stop. So they kept on clapping. By this time their hands were red and sore, but they kept clapping. Finally, after twenty-five centichrons, one man stopped. Everyone around him stopped clapping and they all sat down, exhausted.

  “The next day Koba had that man taken away and hanged.”

  “Cheery story.” Her lover slides down beside her and puts his arm around her. “I have an idea. What do you say you and I forget all this nonsense and go off and have a little fun?”