Steel Sky

by Andrew C. Murphy

  Orcus watches as Second Son slides the door softly shut behind him. Then, taking a deep breath, he lowers his gaze and returns his attention to the task of taking another step.

  CADELL

  “Here we are, sweetheart,” Amarantha says. “We’re home.”

  Cadell stands outside the doorway, looking blankly into the room. Amarantha takes his elbow and guides him over the threshold.

  “Good to be home, hmm?” she says.

  Cadell blinks. He looks at her, then at the room again. A green and yellow bruise runs across his throat. At the center it is black and blistered where the current from the shockstick entered his flesh. Amarantha notices that Cadell’s Adam’s apple is not the same shape it once was. “Would you like some pop?” she asks.

  Cadell does not respond. He is looking at his feet. He lifts his toes, swaying gently to balance himself, then lowers them. He seems to think about it for a while. Again he lifts his toes. And lowers them. Lift and lower. Lift and lower.

  “Sure you would,” Amarantha says, trying to keep her voice level. She goes to the cabinet and pulls out a canister of bloodpop. She hands it to Cadell. After he has stared at it for a while, Amarantha takes his right hand in hers and lifts it, showing him how to hold the can.

  He turns it in his hands, smiling at the feel of the smooth metal. Carbonated liquid begins to dribble out onto the floor. Amarantha takes the can back from him. She reseals it. “Maybe we should sit down,” she says.

  With her hand on his shoulder, she guides him to the chair. She turns him so that his back is toward it. Gently, she tries to push him into the seat, but he resists, not comprehending her purpose. She steps back and mimes the action of sitting. He watches her curiously. Finally, she simply pushes him into the chair. He falls hard, unprepared, and the chair nearly tips over. He scowls at her for a moment and opens his mouth as if to complain. Then he shuts his mouth and looks around, taking the room in from this new perspective.

  She crouches down beside him, looking into his eyes. She loves his eyes. They are either blue or brown or gray, depending on how you look at them. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart,” she says, taking his hand in hers. “I’m sure you’ll feel better soon. Very soon.”

  He smiles and reaches out to touch her face. She closes her eyes and lets his long fingers roam across her features. For a moment everything is all right.

  His hands leave her face. She feels him tugging at the can of bloodpop. “Thirsty now?” she asks, unsealing the canister. She holds the can to his lips and lets a little liquid flow into his mouth. He tastes it, making soft, smacking noises with his lips. Grinning, he takes the can from her and upends it over his mouth, quickly swallowing the entire can. The sides of his face glisten with sticky, red rivers of pop.

  Amarantha gets a towel and wipes off his cheeks. He smiles and nuzzles his face against the cloth.

  “I know you’ll feel better in the morning, sweetheart,” Amarantha says. “I know you will.”

  DEATH WISH

  “Back from the dead,” a voice near him whispers. “I like that.”

  Edward turns toward the voice. It is difficult to see through the brilliance of the full spectrum bath, but he can just make out the stranger’s silhouette. He is surprised; he had not thought anyone was near him. Seeing his confusion, the stranger obligingly turns his head, presenting his profile to Edward. Edward recognizes the gangling neck and broken nose of the Deathsman. Like Edward, like all the other bathers, he is naked but for slim black goggles and a codpiece. “What are you doing here?” Edward whispers, angry.

  “Getting my vitamin D. Stimulating my pineal. Same as you,” the Deathsman says. The wall panels around them project powerful light of the multiple wavelengths physically and psychologically necessary for human health. Edward, like every Hypogean, comes to the full spectrum baths once a decameron.

  “That’s not what I meant, damn it!” At the sound of Edward’s voice, several of the other bathers turn their heads in his direction. Edward looks away, embarrassed.

  “Perhaps we should find a more private corner,” the Deathsman suggests.

  “Perhaps you should leave me alone.”

  “Is that any way to behave?” the Deathsman mocks. “You know how much I enjoy your sparkling conversation.”

  Edward stands abruptly and looks for an unoccupied bench. “All right,” he says. “If it will keep you from making a spectacle.” He makes his way carefully across the warm concrete. The Deathsman follows. The giant luminous panels drown them in light, obliterating all shadows.

  Edward sits in a less crowded corner of the spectrum chamber. The Deathsman limps to Edward’s side and plops down, his gangly, naked body covered in sweat.

  “You remain,” Edward says, “the ugliest man I have ever encountered.”

  “Beauty is such an ephemeral thing,” the Deathsman replies, unperturbed. He leans his head back, letting the light soak under his chin.

  “What do you want from me? Or do you just pester me for fun?”

  “Ungracious man. You should be more appreciative of my attention. There are those in the Hypogeum who worship us, you know. Literally worship us. They call us the Gentling Hands. Isn’t that poetic? And yet we never deign them so much as a glance.”

  “Why should anyone worship you?”

  “Because we bring the peace they desire and the punishment they secretly feel they deserve. This may surprise you to learn, Edward, but most people make a terrible mess of their lives. They grow up with these impossible ideals, these illusions in their heads of how they think their lives should be. They mistake these fantasies for attainable goals. The perfect marriage. The perfect job. Perfect control. Perfect justice. They run around, perpetually exhausted, hating themselves for failing their own impossible standards and hating others for what they perceive as judgment of their failure. Is it any wonder they welcome the release we bring?”

  Edward wipes his brow. He is too warm in all this light. “You make us sound like a city of neurotics.”

  “I see it every day,” says the Deathsman. “We are all being slowly driven mad, a quarter million of us crammed into this tiny space. Consider the Winnower, for example.”

  Edward turns his head to look at the Deathsman. His illuminated face looks harsh and brittle. “What about him?”

  “Here is a man who is powerful, who is admired by many people, who is successful — by his own unique standards — and yet he is killing himself. The armor he wears was designed before the air became toxic. It has no respirator built into it. He runs about in the fumatory unprotected, slowly poisoning himself. Why do you suppose he does that?”

  “I have no idea. I suppose he considers it a symbol of his power, his invulnerability.”

  “The only thing it symbolizes is a death wish. The man is literally suffocating under the pressure of his own impossible standards. Deep inside, he’s afraid he doesn’t measure up.”

  Edward opens his mouth to argue, then thinks better of it. He leans back against the warm wall. “I suppose you’d know more about death wishes than I would,” he says.

  “Just so,” the Deathsman agrees.

  They are quiet for a little while. The infrared warms them, makes their blood flow.

  “How did you develop that gash in your leg?” Edward asks.

  “Nothing dramatic,” the Deathsman replies. “I slipped getting into the tub.”

  “I see.”

  “And how is your health, Edward? I came to visit you at work a few days ago, but you were gone. They said they hadn’t seen you in several days.”

  “I was feeling overworked. I took a small vacation.”

  “Good for you. I’ve always felt you worked too hard.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  “You know,” the Deathsman says, “when I talked to your co-workers, I didn’t get the sense that any of them were very upset over your sudden disappearance. Some of them were worried about you, but no one was really distressed. You don’t appear to
have made much of an emotional impact on any of them.”

  The Deathsman’s words make Edward uneasy. It is not like him to discuss emotion. “I guess I don’t make friends too easily.”

  “That’s a shame. Everyone needs friends, Edward.”

  “What about you? Do you have any friends?”

  “A Deathsman can never really be anyone’s friend. Only an accomplice.”

  Edward sits up. The Deathsman’s words are all the more frightening because they are uttered so casually. “What do you mean by that exactly?” Edward asks.

  “Only that I don’t wish to mislead you.” The Deathsman stands and stretches. He looks down at Edward, his unpleasant face almost obliterated by the bright light from the panels. “You know, one of the perquisites of being a Deathsman is that we have the prerogative to seize our client’s records, if we wish. To learn about a client’s life gives his death so much more beauty and meaning. Do you keep a journal, Edward?”

  “No.”

  “A pity,” the Deathsman sighs. “Well, I think that’s enough chat for one day. I should move on before I lose my pallor.” The Deathsman nods his bony head, smiling his lopsided smile, and limps away.

  CONTEMPLATING THE INFINITE

  Orel coughs, and feels sputum and blood come loose in his throat. Suppressing the urge to gag, he holds it in his mouth long enough to stand up and spit over the edge of the pit. The air deep in the tunnels is cleaner than that in the Hypogeum, but something in it is still corrosive enough to burn his throat. He wonders how long they can survive here before the carbon monoxide kills them.

  He looks at his ident — the strange and beautiful ident given to him for no logical reason he could discern. How frustrated the Rats must have been when they couldn’t remove this shiny bauble, he thinks as he turns it over to check the time.

  Nearly ten chronons. They have been here nearly ten chronons.

  He lodges himself in a crack in the rock as tightly as he can fit and puts his head between his knees, thinking.

  It isn’t possible. It simply isn’t possible that they should still be alive. After a century and a half, the fumatory should have infiltrated every crevice of the tunnels no matter how distant from the Hypogeum.

  Unless the tunnels go on further than has been suspected. Much further. Clean air must be leaking into this cavern from . . . somewhere else.

  He coughs again, and pain lances through his chest. With no time to control himself, he disgorges what feels like the entire lining of his throat over his boots. He sits with his head hanging between his knees for a long time, waiting for the agony to subside. His mouth swims with the coppery taste of blood. He cannot bear the pain of swallowing, so he just opens his lips and lets it drip from his mouth. He breathes raggedly, knowing that he is inhaling his own death.

  Don’t let the fear take over, he thinks. If you want to survive, you have to stay calm. You can’t fight your way out of this. Thraso proved that. You have to think your way out.

  He hears a commotion at the other end of the pit. The Rakehells are talking and moving around. Then he sees what has them so worried. A trio of Rats, silhouetted against the cave fires, is approaching the pit.

  The Rakehells shuffle back, but the Rats are not carrying any weapons. In fact, the arms of the two smaller Rats are full of dreadlock vines and other things carried from beneath, in the manner of gifts.

  A moment later, Orel sees his supposition confirmed. The larger Rat touches the two others, running its fingers subtly along their arms, and they walk along the pit, dropping their burdens over the edge as they go. When their arms are empty they return to the larger Rat, and the three return the way they came.

  The captured Rakehells cautiously move forward.

  “It’s food!” says one, pulling a thick leaf from a dreadlock vine and chewing on it.

  “And water,” says another, holding a sloshing leather pouch.

  The Rakehells push forward eagerly, but Orel holds back. He would dearly like a drink of water, but he doubts the Rakehells would be eager to share with him. Besides, he is more concerned with the Rat behavior he has just witnessed.

  They’re keeping us alive, he thinks. So our meat will be fresh later. They can plan ahead.

  And the way the big Rat touched the smaller two . . .

  He told Thraso the Rats couldn’t be intelligent because they didn’t have a language. But that was assuming language had to be spoken.

  Maybe I was wrong, he thinks. Maybe I was wrong about a lot of things.

  He is contemplating this idea, considering how it might offer him a glimmer of hope for survival, when he sees something even more astonishing.

  Among the pile of gifts the Rats have dropped is a tangle of colored wires and glittering metal. The Rakehells either have not noticed it, or do not care, being more concerned with filling their bellies.

  Orel crawls forward and plucks the metal thing from the pile. The nearest Rakehell glares at him sullenly, but does not try to stop him. Orel scuttles back into his crevice and examines what he has found.

  They kept the shell, he thinks, and discarded the inside, thinking it was just dead weight. He turns it over in his hands. All the parts are here, and the battery is still partially charged. A few of the connections are loose, but he quickly reconnects them.

  Hardly believing his good fortune, he slips the mechanism over his head: a working sonar helmet.

  THE SHORT, COLD CHRISTMAS

  The library is small — there are perhaps a thousand books here at most — but it possesses a quality that makes Second Son pause before entering. Despite the hermetically sealed doors, the luminous wallstrips and the homeostatic air control, the library conveys an overwhelming sense of antiquity. Most of the books here date back to the days of Koba’s rule. Some are as old as the Eternity Riots. There are even a few that Orcus claims are older than the Hypogeum itself, but Second Son isn’t sure he believes that.

  The room has thick walls, no dark corners, and several security cameras. Second Son feels his pulse and breathing slow, calmed by the quiet dignity of this place. The library is a sanctuary of sorts, where the dangers of the world outside can intrude only when safely pressed between pages.

  There is a single place to sit: a plush, tan chair, so unlike the furniture in the rest of the Chandelier. Second Son sinks into its thick upholstery. He pages carefully through his father’s book. His lips move as he slowly reads down the pages. Occasionally he flips back to reread something he did not understand before.

  When he is done, he holds the book in his lap. His face is sallow and shadowed under the fluorescent light. He takes a deep breath, his mind awhirl with new thoughts. He has heard the story of the Winnower before, of course — it is part of the subtext of history — but the other stories in the book are new to him. The imagination, the audacity, with which the stories are concocted! It is a revelation, even to Second Son who knows that truth is only the framework around which history is constructed.

  He puts the book away in its case. He pulls another one from the shelves. The book hisses as it is retrieved, its cover rasping against its tightly packed neighbors. Second Son turns the book over in his hands. This one is much older, with paper and binding not quite like anything else Second Son has ever seen. The spine crackles as he opens it. He turns the brittle pages and reads:

  At last the anchor was up, the sails were set, and off we glided. It was a short, cold Christmas; and as the short northern day merged into night, we found ourselves almost broad upon the wintry ocean, whose freezing spray cased us in ice, as in polished armor. The long rows of teeth on the bulwarks glistened in the moonlight; and like the white ivory tusks of some huge elephant, vast curving icicles depended from the bows.

  Second Son closes the book. He does not completely understand the words, but he finds them compelling nonetheless. He slides the book back into place, tucking it carefully between its siblings. He looks at the shelves. So many books! Each one a mysterious world unto its
elf. No wonder his father could disappear here for days at a time.

  He opens another cabinet, inhaling the sweet smell of yellowing paper, of slowly burning pages. He finds a slim volume titled A Short History of Eternity, and opens it.

  PRESSED FOR TIME

  As a lower echelon worker at Central Time Standard, I have watched the new government’s Chronometric Program since its inception.

  When the new government took power, they assigned each citizen a chronometer. The chronometer was an unbreakable, unremovable band of circuitry encircling the citizen’s forearm. Nobody thought much about them at the time; they seemed to be the least of the new government’s reforms. We took some comfort in the personal timepieces, whose lighted faces simulated the sunrises and sunsets our grandparents had told us about.

  The real significance of the chronometers was not apparent until later, when the government revealed its Worker Efficiency Program. The government had assembled an exhaustive list documenting the exact amount of work any government employee — and we were all government employees at that point — was expected to perform in one hour. For example, in one hour a quartz tube processor was expected to process four-point-seven-two tubes, a window washer was expected to wash twenty-point-four windows, and so on. What was unusual was the government’s method of enforcing its standards.

  The speed on the chronometers was variable. Through some process only upper echelon Central Time officials understood, the chronometer would keep pace with the work performed by each worker. If a quartz tube processor took an hour and ten minutes to process his four-point-seven-two tubes, his chronometer would still register only one hour as having passed. His day would not end until he had processed the requisite number of tubes. However, once he left work, the chronometer would speed up again, running faster to make up for the time lost on the job. At nine o’clock the next morning he would be back in sync with his fellow employees, and if he did not keep pace with them the process would begin again.

  The workers complained, but they were powerless. Their only representatives were the men who had begun the Program in the first place. The government papers — and they were all government papers at that point — criticized them for their lack of initiative. Those citizens with white-collar jobs did not complain too loudly since the Program did not affect them.