Steel Sky

by Andrew C. Murphy

Edward reaches out to touch the man’s face. “But it might be infected. You should let me examine you.”

  “No, I don’t have time.” The clop grabs Edward’s wrist and yanks it away. “Aren’t you done yet?”

  It takes a moment for Edward to realize that the clop is talking to the workers. “Just finishing now, Officer Horsen,” one of them announces, snapping the glass hemisphere back in place.

  “Good. Let’s go.” The clop places a hand on Edward’s chest and pushes. Edward stumbles backward and falls into his chair.

  The clop points a finger at him. “We’ll be watching you,” he says. Edward remains in the chair as they leave. One of the workers slams the door shut behind him. The broken lock clicks, and the door slides open again. Gingerly, Edward touches the spot on his head where the clop hit him with the gun.

  From the corner, a small voice asks, “Can I get dressed now?”

  THE NEXT DIMENSION

  Bernie and Orel stand at a control panel on a platform overlooking a series of canals and locks. Clean water from the river and waste from the sewers pass through here. Bernie and Orel are working to keep the flow and pressure constant by opening and closing gates. It is tedious, repetitive work. The hot air stinks of methane.

  Orel pulls a switch and a door in one of the digester tanks scrapes open. The sludge drains away with a loud gurgle, flowing down thick pipes to the primary settling tanks.

  “You know,” he says, mopping his brow. “I hear that yesterday they had to scrape another suicide off the screens again.”

  Bernie nods, slumped against the guardrail, watching the canals.

  Orel pushes the switch back into place. He has to lean with all his weight to get the ancient gears to move. “This guy jumped in upriver,” he says as he works. “Had plenty of time to build up speed. Took two guys with wetsuits, mesh bags, picks and spatulas half a chronon to scrape him out.”

  Bernie grunts something inaudible, still not turning from the water. As he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his cybernetic arm — which still bears the marks of the Rat’s attack — grates against the metal guardrail with a high-pitched whine.

  “I just like to think about stuff like that sometimes,” Orel continues. “Reminds me that there are worse assignments I could be doing.”

  Bernie only nods again. Orel is flustered by Bernie’s silence. Reticence is not at all like him.

  Orel wipes his brow again, feeling the dirt on his sleeve smear across his forehead. He studies the other gauges. The pressures in the tanks are all within acceptable limits. There is nothing to do until more sludge and water seep in.

  “You know,” he says, “I was thinking about what you were saying before. About the fourth dimension? It seems to me — correct me if I’m wrong — it seems to me that if a fourth spatial dimension really existed, then you could never build a stool with enough legs to keep it from falling over.”

  He waits. Bernie does not rise to the bait. The only sound in the dark, hollow space is the slosh and gurgle of sewage from below.

  “See, a normal stool needs three legs, because you need three points to define a plane, which anchors the stool in two dimensions. Gravity anchors it in the third dimension, so it’s stable. But if a fourth dimension existed, then the stool wouldn’t be stable anymore. It would tip into that other dimension and fall over. To make it stable, you’d have to add another leg. But if you suppose a fourth dimension, there’s no reason not to suppose a fifth, and a sixth, and so on. Pretty soon you’ve got a stool that’s bristling with legs like a pin cushion, and it still won’t stand up!”

  Bernie turns around, leaning on the rail with his elbows. His blue eyes look very tired. “The fourth dimension doesn’t have the same properties as the other three,” he says quietly. “If it did, EM radiation would diminish by the inverse of the cube, or more, instead of the square. As near as anyone can figure, the fourth dimension is collapsed into a sphere so small that not even atoms can fit inside.”

  “Collapsed?” Orel repeats. “How can a dimension collapse? If it did, it would need another dimension to collapse into.”

  Bernie’s metal hand scrapes against the railing. He looks genuinely angry. “For Koba’s sake, Orel! The point isn’t whether the theory is true or not. The point is how beautiful it is!”

  “But how can it be beautiful if it isn’t true?”

  Bernie turns his back to Orel, slouching over the railing. “Forget it. Just forget it.”

  Glumly, Orel studies the gauges. Still nothing to do.

  “I got a comm from Kitt Marburg,” he says.

  “Oh?” For the first time, Orel thinks he hears interest in Bernie’s voice, if not pleasure.

  “She wants us to plan and guide a second expedition. A larger one this time. She already has a bunch of high-class citizens lined up to come along. Primaries. Rakehells. Even the Culminant’s son may be coming along.”

  Bernie takes a deep breath, wind whistling over his iron teeth. “I’m not going.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not going.” Bernie does not raise his voice. He continues staring out at the sewage.

  Taking a quick last glance at the gauges, Orel steps away from the station. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. I’m staying right here, where it’s safe.”

  Orel runs his hands through his hair. “Koba’s teeth,” he swears. “This is the adventure of a lifetime! This is the sort of thing you tell your grandchildren about.”

  Bernie looks at him with arched eyebrows.

  “Or your nephews. Whatever. The point is, what’s life for, if not for the excitement, the pleasure of the things you do while you’re alive? You can’t just play it safe all the time. You’ve got to grab every opportunity to experience something new before it passes you by, because it may not come again.”

  “Do you know how ridiculous you sound?” Bernie asks sullenly.

  “It may be ridiculous, but it’s true.” Orel pulls his scarf away from his scarred face. “Please, Bernie. I’m asking you to come with me. We’re not going to be in any real danger. We’re just going to show a bunch of primaries how to go in the tunnels.”

  Bernie looks him in the eye appraisingly. He opens his mouth, and for a moment Orel is sure he’s going to say yes, but then his eyes narrow and his face closes down again. “I can’t do it,” he says flatly.

  “But why? Why not?”

  Bernie pushes himself away from the railing, distancing himself further from Orel in the process. “Because I’m scared, all right?” He looks back at Orel, his gaze fierce, upper teeth clenched against the metal ones below. “Maybe I’m not like you. Maybe you’ve got something I don’t, something that makes an experience like that worth the pain and the exhaustion and the fear. I don’t know. Maybe you’re just a better man than I am.”

  “Bernie, you know I don’t think that.”

  Bernie turns his head away. He has reached a corner in the railing, and there is no place else to go. He looks up at the mildewed ceiling and takes a deep breath. “All I know is that while I was in those caves — the entire time — I just wanted to die. Every minichron we sat in the dark, in the cold, wondering what the hell was around the next corner, and how it was going to try to kill us . . . I couldn’t stand it. My stomach ached and my balls shriveled and I wanted to throw up. I was so scared I couldn’t think. The only thing that made me able to stand it was you. I was afraid of what you’d think of me if I ran away.”

  “Bernie, I had no idea . . .”

  Bernie cuts the air with one dirty hand, waving the thought away. “Well, now you know.”

  Orel bows his head and looks at his feet. Behind him he hears a bell sound on one of the control systems. He ignores it. “Bernie, listen. I get scared too, you know. Doing this job every day when so many people depend on me scares me. Talking to the girls in the control room scares me. Hell, everything scares me, Bernie. I’m not strong; I’m not witty; I’m certainly not handsome. But I’ll tell you
something: one of the things that keep me going is the knowledge of the things I’ve already done in my life. I can say to myself, ‘I’m the guy who stood by the doors when the Levellers rioted. I’m the guy who went into the Rat tunnels armed with only a flashlight.’ And, damn it, Bernie, so are you. I’m proud we went in there, Bernie, no matter how scared we were. I’m proud that you were willing to go through all that for my sake. I’m proud to be your friend.”

  Bernie looks over Orel’s shoulder at the control panel, where the bell is ringing more urgently now. His eyes are dull and reddened. “If you’re my friend,” he says, “you won’t ask me to go in there again.”

  “Bernie . . .” Orel begins, but Bernie has already pushed past him. Ignoring Orel, he begins pulling levers. The locks grind open, and the sewage pours in. Orel’s words are lost in the roar of rushing water.

  THE BOY IN SHAFT SEVEN

  Kitt Marburg is chatting with one of her clients, discussing the Orcus marriage, when the light on her comm panel blinks and the bell rings softly. Kitt stops talking in mid-sentence, surprised; she has given Image specific instructions not to disturb her during a chat unless it is a dire emergency. Looking at the comm plate she sees, instead of an identity code, an endlessly repeating string of zeros. She has never seen anything like it before.

  “I’m sorry, I have to take this,” she says to her client. Seeing the justifiable look of offense on his face, Kitt quickly adds, “I think it’s a new bit of goss. I promise to call you right back. You’ll be the first to know.” Satisfied, the man signs off, and the holopad goes blank.

  “Image,” Kitt says, “who is on the comm?”

  “No one is on the comm,” the subroutine replies.

  The bell sounds again.

  “Image: Receive,” she commands.

  “The comm is not ringing,” the subroutine says. “Do you wish to rephrase your instructions?”

  “No, I wish you to open the damn comm.”

  The subroutine is quiet for a moment, assessing this instruction. “The comm is not ringing,” it repeats.

  With a shrug, Kitt presses the receive button. The holo unit activates, and a frightening, formless blob of gray is projected into her domus. The grayness wavers and shifts like smoke, lapping at her feet. This, too, is something she has never seen before.

  “How do you do that?” she asks.

  A voice — his voice — emerges clearly from the emptiness. “Are you alone?”

  “You’re not much for polite conversation, are you?”

  There is a brief pause. Kitt imagines the expression on the Winnower’s face, flustered by her insolence. “Are you alone?” he repeats.

  Kitt crosses her legs and stretches her arms out across the back of her couch, wondering if he can see her or if he is as blind as she is. “Maybe. Did you hear about the boy in Shaft Seven?”

  There is another pause. “The one who strangled his mother because he didn’t like the way she redecorated,” he says finally. “Yes, I heard.”

  “Well? What do you think about it?”

  “I don’t see how it should concern me. He’s in custody, isn’t he?”

  “That’s not my point. Surely you can see how he was influenced by you. He was following your example of using lethal force to resolve interpersonal conflict.”

  “My example has nothing to do with his behavior. The boy is insane.”

  “Maybe, but he’s not the only person who’s imitating you. The rate of assaults in the Hypogeum has doubled in the past two decamera. And most of the people involved — if they’re still alive — are claiming some higher purpose for their actions, some moral code that necessitated their violent outbursts. Just like you.”

  “How other people interpret my philosophy is not my responsibility. Criminals will always have some excuse for their atrocities. This year it’s me.”

  “But surely you can see that you’ve started a wave of violence, and it’s spreading outward. You’ve started it, but you won’t be able to control it. Someday the terror may come home to you, or to someone you love.”

  “So you suggest inaction? You consider injustice acceptable as long as it takes place in a peaceful climate?”

  “Of course not. I only wonder if your suppression is as effective as you think it is. When your little crusade is over, will the crime rate actually be any lower than when you started?”

  “Enough.” The sharpness in the Winnower’s voice makes Kitt edge back in her seat. She has finally succeeded in making him angry. “This is leading nowhere,” the voice growls. “Do you have information for me or not?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. And now that we’ve had a pleasant little chat, I’ll be happy to share it with you. See? That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

  “What do you have?”

  Kitt sighs. The man is utterly without humor. “Lem Comfrey,” she says. “Heard of him?”

  “Should I have?”

  “He’s a palaestran. He was popular a year ago, but now he’s lost his favor. He was fired a few days ago.”

  “And?”

  “He’s decided to kill himself. He’s locked himself in his domus and commed a few friends to say goodbye. His trademark as a palaestran was his use of knives and swords. I imagine that’s how he’ll try to kill himself. Or ‘journey into the Stone,’ as he puts it. He’s suddenly become devout.”

  “Why should I care about this?”

  “Because he’s decided to take his girlfriend with him.”

  TRUE LOVE

  “Put me down! By Koba’s eyes, I’ll make you sorry if you don’t put me down!”

  Dancer is struggling with Second Son at the threshold of their father’s auxiliary suite, which he has lent them for their wedding night.

  “I will not suffer this indignity! Put me down!”

  “All right, if that’s what you want.” Dancer steps over the threshold and unceremoniously dumps Second Son on the floor. In a fit, he rolls away from her and jumps to his feet.

  “I will not put up with any more of your abuse, Dancer!” he shouts, pointing at her. “Now that we’re married, things will change! I am the man in this relationship! I am the master!”

  “Of course you are, dear.” Dancer brushes past him, pulling loose her black veil and letting it waft to the floor. At the window she turns. The bright light shining through the fabric of her dress reveals her athletic silhouette. Her leg muscles bunch each time she takes a step, then relax to perfect smoothness. She arches her back and peeks over her shoulder coquettishly. “It’s our honeymoon suite, darling. Aren’t you excited?”

  Second Son throws his jacket on a table, the buttons click-clacking against the plastic. He has been in this suite before, and he doesn’t like it much. It does not have a lived-in feel. His father keeps it primarily to impress clients and mistresses. It is virtually at the apex of the Chandelier, the highest living space in the Hypogeum. Water pressure is low, and the light comes in almost horizontally. The Sun, which looks like a golden orb from below, is revealed here as a scratched and dusty saucer, flickering intermittently. Second Son can see the shadows of workmen climbing about inside it.

  “No more games, Dancer. I’m in charge now.” Second Son balls both hands into fists. What happens at this moment, he realizes, will determine the shape of his future. If he does not assert dominance now, he will be a disgrace to the family forever.

  “Is that any way to talk to your new bride?” Dancer smiles her infuriating smile. “Come here and give us a kiss.”

  With his heart beating furiously, he forces himself to walk forward. Remember what the instructor said, he thinks. Left to the head. Then, when her hands go up to protect her face, hit her as hard as you can in the stomach with your right. It’s the only language she understands. It’s the only way she’ll respect you.

  “No more games, Dancer,” he says. Don’t be weak, he thinks. Remember how she locked you in the closet when you were six, how she pushed you down the stairs when you were ni
ne.

  “You just don’t get it, do you, Hump?” Dancer jeers at him, her hands on her hips. “It’s not just enough to talk like father. You have to act like him!”

  With a yelp of anger, Second Son throws his fist forward at Dancer’s face. As her hands fly upward to protect her face, leaving her stomach exposed, he thinks elatedly, it’s working! It’s actually going to work! He pulls his other fist back for the crowning blow. Suddenly he realizes he is off balance. Dancer has grabbed his left hand and is pulling him forward. Frantically he tries to right himself, but she is pivoting around so he stumbles on top of her. She pushes up with her hip, while simultaneously tugging down on his arm. The room spins. Second Son lands flat on his back, hard enough to make the floor shudder. He is still trying to get his bearings and catch his breath when the side of her hand flashes down, striking his windpipe. Pain shoots down his back and through his whole body.

  “That could have been a killing blow,” she says. Second Son writhes on the floor. He is in too much pain to even think about defending himself. Dancer jumps on top of him, straddling his chest, pinning his arms against his sides with her thighs. She looks down at him with a calm smile on her face. One earshell has been knocked loose, but otherwise she is still perfectly composed. Not a hair in her elaborate coiffure is out of place.

  “You . . . aack . . . bitch,” he whispers past the pain in his throat. He tries to squirm loose, but her strong legs hold him pinned.

  “You’ve said that before,” Dancer says, smiling. “You’re getting repetitive.” She shrugs out of her embroidered jacket. Her body is smooth and flawless above the bodice, her muscles sharply defined by the intimate sunlight. He can see her pulse beat delicately in her throat. A single drop of sweat travels down her chest, dipping into the hollow between her breasts, disappearing into the bodice.

  “I’ve planned this for a long time, brother.” She laughs softly, easily, as if he weren’t there. “While you, apparently, can’t plan your next meal without a steering committee.” She reaches around to her back and undoes the clasp of her dress. Sequins glitter in the sun-light as she tosses it aside. She is naked now but for her bodice, underwear and slippers. As her weight settles on him, the muscles of her thighs encircling him, he feels an odd warmth, a heightening of the senses. That he should become aroused under these circumstances is the worst humiliation of all.