Steel Sky

by Andrew C. Murphy

  The tall creature plants a calloused hand against Orel’s chest. Orel recognizes the signs for — Why — You — Here? —

  Moving very slowly, Orel places the sonar helmet on the ground so he will have both hands free. With trembling fingers, he returns the signs for what he hopes means, I wish to leave. Let me go.

  The Rat squeals, pulling its thin lips back from its teeth. Orel cannot decipher what emotion this is supposed to convey. — You — No — Go, — the Rat signs. — You — Food. —

  Orel tries to translate the signs and respond as quickly as he can, knowing that if he hesitates the Rat will kill him. — No — Food, — he signs. — I — One — You. — He repeats the last sentence as emphatically as he can, pounding his palm against the Rat’s chest. I am one of you.

  The Rat regards him quizzically. Its nostrils flare, and it hisses at him, but it does not seem angry. Its hand flashes out. Orel flinches back, but the creature only touches Orel’s nose, then makes the sign for — Bad. —

  Orel’s mind races, trying to translate this new combination of signs. Smell, he realizes. He’s saying I smell wrong. I don’t smell like a Rat. In a sudden burst of inspiration, Orel signs back, — You — Smell — Bad — Too. —

  The Rat throws back its head and squeals. Its shoulders shake and its incisors gnash together. For a moment Orel fears that he has gone too far, that he has offended the creature, but then he realizes that the awful squealing is the Rat’s equivalent of laughter.

  — What — We — Do — Things? — the Rat signs, pointing in the direction of the pit. With a chill, Orel realizes that, as a test, the Rat is asking him what should be done with the other humans. Is Orel truly a Rat as he claims to be, or is he one of those food things?

  — Things — Smell — Bad, — Orel signs.

  The Rat snuffles. This time it is not amused.

  — What — We — Do — Things, — it repeats, slapping its hands against Orel’s chest hard enough to send him staggering backwards.

  Orel realizes that there is nothing he can do. If he recommends that the humans be allowed to leave, he will expose himself as one of them, a thing to be eaten like the others. If he wants to leave the cave alive, Orel must say what a Rat would say.

  — Kill — Things, — he signs. — Kill — Many — Things. —

  It’s worth it, Orel tells himself, though his empty stomach is churning with revulsion. It’s worth the sacrifice if at least one of us is able to escape. There’s no other way.

  — I — One —You, — he signs again. I am one of you.

  THE INNOCENTS

  Edward Penn stands dressed in the Winnower armor on a ledge overlooking the Hypogeum. He looks down, savoring the moment, feeling the balance of power between himself and the city before him. He takes a deep breath. The poisoned air stings his lungs and makes his head swim, but he can feel his blood rise in response, generating the chemicals needed to neutralize the toxins seeping into his veins. Adrenaline rockets through his system, infusing his muscles with unnatural strength.

  His vision wavers slightly as he activates the blender. As he leaps from the roof, the augmentronics in his armor multiply the power of his muscles fivefold. He falls six stories before he grabs a narrow pipeline, using it to swing to the next roof. He descends into the labyrinth of the city.

  In some places he travels alone, hidden in the service tunnels or in the spaces between the decks. Other times he dodges directly through the crowds, disturbing them only by the change of air pressure in his wake. To most people he is only random ventilator wind. To others he is a passing ghost, a premonition of death. They look around at the space he has occupied, their eyes wide with sullen fear.

  Things are different on the lower decks. The dim lights turn every color gray, and each person drags a dozen shadows behind him. The air itself is heavier. As he runs, Edward can feel the ancient buildings creak and strain against one another.

  He emerges from an access tunnel into the support structure above the Quad Concourse, a public area that spans Decks Nine and Ten. He is well beneath river level now, and everything is moist and slick. His boots and gauntlets slip dangerously as he makes his way across the girders. A listless crowd is packed into the narrow, twisting street below. Half of the shops on either side of the concourse are closed. The people move slowly, without purpose.

  Edward crawls in front of one of the long illuminators that line the roof of the concourse. Not even the light-twisting properties of the blender can prevent him from casting a huge shadow across the crowd. The people stop and raise their heads, but he has already moved on. The red makeup framing their faces only accentuates the pallor of their cheeks, the darkness around their eyes.

  Edward finally spies his quarry. Three figures move purposefully though the shifting crowd: two men flanking a smaller, dark-haired woman. The taller man directs them, his arm wrapped tightly around the shoulders of the women. She stumbles as he pushes her forward. The other man, shorter but more massive, carries a small duffel bag. Edward recognizes the bag as one of his own.

  He climbs down the outside of one of the elevator shafts. The metal sheath groans under his weight, and his claws leave tiny puncture marks. He jumps among the people on the mezzanine, not caring anymore if they are aware of his presence. He sprints across a graffiti-covered causeway, pushing the people aside. The blender cannot adequately disguise him when he moves at this speed; he looks like a quicksilver statue come to life, reflecting bits and pieces of the people around him.

  He leaps up and perches on the guardrail, looking over the side. The three fugitives will pass directly beneath him. He deactivates the blender. Someone screams. The people begin to hurry away from him blindly. They stumble against one another, torn by conflicting impulses of fear and curiosity.

  The three figures suddenly find themselves alone. A wide space has cleared around them in the crowd. They stop and look around, confused and angry. Edward glares down at them from the transversing walkway like a white and crimson gargoyle. The people at the edges of the space, sensing that a spectacle is about to unfold, turn to watch. The crowd is very quiet. Edward remains on his perch a little longer, letting the moment draw out.

  Astrid stares up at him, unconcealed fear in her eyes. The tall man — Samael — grips her tightly, one arm around her shoulders, his other hand clamped on her wrist. The glowbands on his jacket pulse rhythmically, painting his face red and green. He shouts something at Astrid, and Edward notices that his front teeth have been resculpted into long fangs. The other man, whose face is as broad as Samael’s is lean, drops the duffel bag and protracts a long wirewhip from a canister on his belt. The muscles of his thick arms tighten beneath his shirt as he tests the weapon, bending it to one side, then letting it snap back into shape.

  Edward hops from his perch and drops to the cement in front of them. Though the drop is almost ten meters, he lands gracefully, his metal heels clacking against the concrete. He takes a step toward the three fugitives. He is vaguely aware that all the eyes of the crowd are on him. There is even a smattering of applause. He hears his name being whispered: Winnower. Winnower. Winnower.

  Edward and the squat man circle each other appraisingly. The wirewhip sings as the man slashes it from side to side. In the hands of a novice, a wirewhip can maim; when wielded by an expert, it can cut a man in half. Samael grips Astrid tightly and steps back. Astrid opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it, a look of anger and despair on her face. She is at the center of this conflict, but she is not truly a part of it.

  The squat man is shaped like an inverted triangle, with a broad chest and long legs, and he moves with surprising speed. His wirewhip flashes forward, vibrating with a high-pitched hum as it cuts the air. Edward dodges to one side. The whip strikes the pavement with a loud crack! and a small explosion of chipped concrete. Edward tries to move in, but already the man has retracted the whip and sent it out again. It arcs toward him low, trying to wrap around his legs. Edward leaps forward over
its path. His claws miss the man’s face by millimeters. Edward and the big man square off again, Edward staying just beyond the wirewhip’s reach, the big man reluctant to move too close and thus give Edward an opening. A shout of encouragement from the crowd distracts the man momentarily, and Edward charges forward, directly at him. The man turns and darts to one side, flashing the whip sideways, so Edward is forced to dodge around it.

  On landing, Edward stumbles. The fraction of a second it takes him to regain his balance is all the time the man needs. He brings the whip down toward Edward’s head, the white-hot tip roaring as it approaches the speed of sound. It wraps itself once, twice, three times around Edwards’ neck, with the awful screeching sound of metal against metal. Edward is thrown to the ground by the force of it. He reaches up to his neck, expecting to find it ripped and bleeding, but the neckpiece of his armor is only scratched. Stupid of me, Edward thinks. Of course he can’t hurt me.

  He grabs the whip and yanks at it. The man is pulled forward, off balance. He looks stupidly at his empty hand. Edward stands, unwraps the whip from his neck, and throws it to the ground. The air smells of sweat and scorched metal. The whispers of the crowd have become a chant: Winnower. Winnower. Winnower.

  Too late, the man drops into a defensive posture. Inwardly Edward laughs at the man’s bravado. He moves in swiftly and knocks the man’s arms aside with his left hand. He strikes with his right, hitting the man in the face with the heel of his palm. The man’s respirator shatters, and his head snaps backward. He falls senseless to the concrete. A pool of blood slowly begins to grow around his left ear.

  Edward looks away. If the man is not dead yet, he soon will be. The crowd erupts into cheers and applause. The men shake their fists and make the thumbs-down sign, as if they were spectators in the Palaestra. Despite himself, Edward is moved by the applause.

  He turns toward Astrid and Samael, whose thin face is white with fear. Edward walks forward with slow, measured steps. He has never felt so powerful. It is as if his every step could shake the city.

  Samael releases Astrid, who stumbles away. Alone now, the man stares at Edward for a moment as if trying to decide whether to flee or stand his ground. Fear wins out. He turns and tries to run into the crowd, but a swarm of hands push him back. He looks wildly around for an avenue of escape, but the crowd is thick all around him, shouting and jeering.

  “How does it feel to treat human beings as a commodity?” Edward asks, walking toward him. “How does it feel to traffic in souls?” Someone in the crowd spits at Samael. It hits him in the forehead and slowly rolls down the side of his face. He does not bother to wipe it away. He is shaking violently, barely able to stand. His eyes dart back and forth.

  “Is this how you get all your girls?” Edward asks, loud enough for the crowd to hear. “Are they all kidnapped?”

  For the first time, Samael looks directly into Edward’s face. His eyes are red and watery. His absurd pointed teeth show as he grins weakly. “What?”

  Edward frowns. He is not used to repeating himself. “I said . . .”

  “Is that what you think this is?” Samael says quickly. His voice is high and strained, with an accent Edward does not recognize. “A kidnapping?”

  Edward stops walking. In the sudden silence he realizes his ears are ringing, a precursor to one of his headaches. Samael laughs nervously, a sound that is almost a sob. “She commed me!” he says. “She wanted to come home, but she didn’t know the way. That’s all I was doing, neighbor. Escorting her.”

  The ringing in Edward’s ears grows. It’s going to be a bad one. He touches his gauntleted hand to the side of his head. “Don’t lie to me,” he growls.

  “I’m a quaternary!” Samael says, holding out his ident for Edward to see. “Could I have gotten up to Deck One without an invitation?”

  Edward’s heart sinks. He is right. Samael would not have been permitted to enter Deck Seven, much less get as far as Edward’s door. He looks to Astrid for some sort of explanation. “Is this true?” he asks, turning. But Astrid is gone. She has disappeared into the crowd.

  “See?” Samael says, laughing stupidly. “I didn’t kidnap her. She wanted to get away. I was just doing what she asked!”

  Edward doesn’t reply. He is confused and uncertain what to do next. Pain is crawling like an insect through his brain. Someone in the crowd boos. A half-eaten piece of food strikes Samael in the chest, leaving a wet, green stain. Samael looks around, frightened. “I didn’t do anything!” he shouts.

  Edward scans the crowd, looking to see if Astrid is still somewhere among them, but all he sees are angry faces. The chant grows louder: Winnower. Winnower. Winnower.

  He looks at Samael, who is sweating so heavily that his red makeup has started to run. How could Edward ever have thought this man was dangerous? “You’re still a pimp,” Edward says.

  Samael frantically hits the keys on his ident, calling up a confirmation. “I’m fully licensed,” he says, holding it up for Edward to see. “I’ve never even been late with a fee. Everything I do is legal.”

  “Shut up,” Edward says, pushing him. It is not a hard push, but Samael stumbles over his own feet and falls to the ground. The crowd bursts into applause and screams with laughter, as if Samael’s pratfall is the funniest thing they have ever seen.

  Edward turns to leave, but the crowd is tight all around him. Their garish faces watch him expectantly. Many of them make the thumbs-down sign. The show isn’t over yet. They will not let him leave without a second murder. The chant begins again: Winnower. Winnower. Winnower.

  And it would be murder, Edward realizes. Not justice. Not even revenge. Just murder.

  Edward feels the will of the crowd pressing in on him. Their aggregate desire strikes some biological chord deep inside him, an ancient social imperative, urging him to allow their will to become his. The pressure of their eyes is a frightening thing. In his head, Edward has always imagined audiences to his deeds, the sympathetic audiences of posterity, but it is a different thing to have them bodily before him, weighing and judging his every motion.

  At this moment these people think he is a god. If he leaves now, they will think much less of him. Besides, Edward can see that he has whipped them into a frenzy of blood lust. Even if he does manage to leave now, the crowd will still tear Samael to pieces themselves after he is gone.

  “All right,” he says, stepping close to Samael. He extends a hand to touch Samael on the shoulder. Samael is weeping and shaking violently. “Don’t move,” Edward whispers. “I’ll make this quick.”

  “But I didn’t . . .”

  In one swift motion, Edward’s other claw flashes forward and rips Samael’s larynx from his throat. Arterial blood splashes everywhere, soaking Edward and the crowd. Samael’s body jerks once, then collapses backward. He falls in an ungainly posture, his knees bent out to either side. Edward steps over the body. He holds the bloody piece of throat above his head. The crowd cheers. Some of them are dancing.

  Edward throws the larynx into the crowd. One man actually tries to catch it.

  Edward watches the crowd, suddenly feeling very tired. His head aches, and his ears are ringing. A few men kneel by the bodies, looting them, ignoring the blood that seeps into their leggings. They reach into Edward’s abandoned duffel bag and jubilantly throw pieces of clothing into the air.

  There’s no end, is there? Edward thinks. No end to your hunger.

  THE FACE OF THE CULMINANT

  The lights in Kitt Marburg’s domus suddenly come on, and she is awakened by the soft but insistent bleating of the comm alarm. “Priority Override Transmission,” Image announces in its bland voice. “Please answer the comm.”

  Kitt opens her eyes and rolls out of bed, without stopping to comb her hair or otherwise compose herself. She does not like to be disturbed during her time off and sees no reason to make herself look any more pleasant than she feels. She considers appearing at the comm naked, as a reproach to whoever is rude enough to be bothe
ring her, but decides against it. She wraps herself in a blanket and pads to the transmission area. She slaps the receive button.

  The air above the holopad flickers, darkens, and fills with the innocuous face of Harrel Selachian, the Culminant. He wears an uncomplicated, dark coverup, and a red mandilion. The only decoration is the gold sash of his office. He balks momentarily at her disheveled state.

  “I know it’s the middle of the day in your cycle, Selachian,” Kitt says sharply, “but for me it’s the middle of the night.”

  Selachian frowns. Like many politicians, his inner fire is masked by a very ordinary countenance. Kitt is not sure why Selachian never corrected his weak chin or his receding hairline. Perhaps he likes to appear as a simple man of the people. “My son is missing,” he says. His voice would sound prissy to an ear less well trained than Kitt’s.

  She blinks, adjusting herself to wakefulness. “They’re only half a day overdue. They could simply be delayed. You know how it is with young men when they’re having a good time.”

  “Not my boy. Eno is very punctual. Always right on time.”

  “I see.” Kitt could care less if Selachian’s worthless child fell down a bottomless pit, but she tries her best to sound concerned. Selachian could easily ruin her. With a single signature he could cut her out of the commlink forever.

  “Let me tell you what we’re going to do about it,” Selachian says. His voice has the sing-song quality of a prepared speech, as if years of habit have made the cadence instinctual, but his expression is one that would frighten the average voter. “I am going to organize a search party to go after my son. I estimate that the organization will require a minimum of fifty security officers, each armed with both crowd-control weaponry and cave-in rescue equipment.”

  “Isn’t that going to be rather expensive?” Kitt asks, already sensing where Selachian is leading her.

  “That’s where you come in, Marburg. I expect a great deal of resistance to the proposal from my enemies in the Prime Medium. You are going to talk to all your friends and convince them of the importance of this mission, so if the matter comes to a vote I will have all the support I need. I don’t care who you talk to or what you say, so long as I win that vote.”