Steel Sky

by Andrew C. Murphy

  “What the hell is going on?” he asks. “What was that?”

  “It’s the beginning,” the Deathsman says. “The beginning of the end.”

  EPICENTER

  Second Son looks up at Koba and feels something like religious fear. In all his years, he has never had a reason to come here before. He never realized how awesome the statue was up close, or how strange the light becomes here at the edge of the city.

  The Sky, he thinks, the Sky is so much closer here.

  He takes a moment to compose himself and studies the statue again. It is a marvelous piece of propaganda. The real Koba was paunchy from an early age, never muscular like the statue. And the real Koba would never stand for the agony the statue seems to eternally endure. He was too proud, too selfish. Koba the man would step aside and let the city be crushed rather than accept such indignity.

  We have that much in common, Second Son thinks.

  He walks across the plaza, through Koba’s legs, to where the river pours from a cleft in the cavern wall. A crowd is gathered in the dark piazetta. The people move aside as he and his men approach. In the back, where the paving stones end and the path gives way to uneven rock, the rescue party is waiting. Close to fifty clops stand there impatiently, a quarter of the city’s entire force. They glare at him resentfully from behind their crimson eyebands. Second Son is glad he brought his entourage.

  “Let’s get moving, people!” he says, the amplifier in his respirator carrying his voice over the roar of the river. “Those poor men could be lost anywhere in those tunnels, and the sooner we can find them, the sooner we can help!”

  The clops grumble and look at each other, but no one is prepared to step forward and challenge Second Son’s authority. Selachian is nowhere to be seen. Typical, Second Son thinks. Never willing to get his hands dirty. Not even to rescue his own son.

  Reluctantly leaving his entourage behind, Second Son walks along the narrow path carved into the rock face. The clops fall into single file and follow him. The shallow steps of the pathway are slick with mildew. Only a thin guardrail separates him from the cataract that plunges into the hydroelectric complex. The rail vibrates beneath his fingers. Is that it? he wonders, his heartbeat accelerating. No, it’s only from the rushing of the water.

  He moves on. The path curves around the river bend. Soon the city is lost to their sight. It is much darker here, perpetual twilight. I didn’t realize the path would be so narrow, Second Son thinks. He can hear nothing but the rush of white water. The wall of the great cavern looms above him. Ten meters ahead the guardrail ends. Beyond that there is no path, only a fissure in the rock where the tunnels begin. Second Son slows his pace. They’re cutting it close, he thinks.

  Coming to the end of the guardrail, he stops. Someone behind him bumps into him. He looks up at the rock wall. They forgot to set the explosives, he thinks, or else something’s wrong with the detonator. He hears grumbling in the crowd behind him. The clops are impatient to move on.

  Or am I here too early? Second Son resists the urge to look at the chronometer on his ident. What’s going on? I need more information, he thinks. I should never have stepped away from the monitors. That’s where my power is.

  “What’s the holdup?” someone behind him shouts.

  Second Son looks at his chronometer. He is late, not early. Something has gone wrong. The flesh of his arm is dead white with fear. His skin is dotted with sweat despite the moist chill in the air.

  He will have to go forward, no matter what may happen. “Quiet back there!” he snaps, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. “I’m still assessing the situation.”

  He takes a step forward, beyond the safety of the guardrail. As his foot touches the uneven ground, he hears an explosion above him. He looks up and sees a cloud of dust and debris erupting from the cavern wall. It is very high up, and it takes Second Son a moment to discern how very large the explosion is.

  Finally, he thinks. He turns to the crowd behind him. They are all standing very still, looking upward, mouths agape. Some are even smiling, enjoying the spectacle. They think they are safe.

  “It’s going to collapse!” Second Son shouts. “Run!”

  Still the crowd does not move. He turns the gain on his amplifier up to full. “Cave-in!” he screams.

  The ancient warning finally strikes a chord of ancestral fear, and the clops begin to move. They jostle against one another. They quickly become jammed in the narrow pathway, the ones in back not understanding the danger.

  Debris falls around them. Rocks the size of a man’s head drop into the river, sending geysers of water into the air. The echo of the explosion fades away, and is replaced by a deeper, more sustained rumble. Second Son looks up and sees cracks traveling across the rock’s surface, widening as they go. This is it, he thinks. I’ve miscalculated. I’m going to die.

  The clops on the walkway begin to move backward, slowly at first, then faster as the warning spreads through the crowd. Suddenly the bottleneck is broken and the clops begin a mad rush back along the pathway. Second Son follows them, taking a last look upward. Giant chunks of rock are slowly breaking free and sliding down the wall. He runs down the pathway after the fleeing clops, the overhang protecting him from most of the debris.

  A huge slab of rock falls into the river. The splash it creates inundates him, nearly knocking him to his knees. The chunk of rock is so big that it sticks out above the surface of the river, so heavy that the swift current does not move it. Other stones fall, and Second Son feels the rock beneath his feet shift and sink.

  He rounds the corner and runs into the small plaza in front of the hydroelectric complex. Behind him, the overhang crumbles from the rock face and crashes down onto the pathway. If he had been just a little bit slower, he would have been crushed. He runs out into the main plaza. Even here boulders have fallen from the cavern wall, shattering the marble paving. Clops, priests, and waterworkers all stand in the plaza looking up at the cracks continuing to spread across the cavern wall. Second Son takes a moment to look back. Huge portions of the rock wall have fallen, but his men positioned the charge perfectly; the rock has collapsed in upon itself for the most part, filling the tunnels. The hydroelectric complex is not damaged, and the river has not been dammed.

  A loud noise causes Second Son to look higher up. Fissures have appeared along Koba’s left side. The statue’s arm shifts downward. The figure seems to shrug, as if coming alive after a century of inactivity. Second Son turns and runs, pushing the other onlookers aside. He rushes toward the safety of the buildings at the plaza’s edge. He can hear people screaming all around him. His heart constricts with superstitious fear. Has he gone too far? What if his advisors have miscalculated? What if the whole Sky collapses?

  With a deafening noise, Koba’s forearm comes loose from the wall. At first, it descends with impossible slowness, then it falls faster. And faster. As it falls, it ruptures under its own weight. The people still in the plaza scatter, but they do not move fast enough. Over a dozen of them are caught beneath the huge fragments. The ground shakes under the impact, a great tremor throwing Second Son against the wall. The giant hand shatters on the pavement only ten meters from the front door of the hydroelectric complex. A finger the size of a subway car breaks off and rolls across the plaza — pointing, it seems, at Second Son. When the dust settles, he sees the remnants of the arm scattered diagonally across the length of the plaza. He is suddenly aware of how quiet it has become. His ears still hurt from the thundering roar of falling rock. The tremors have stopped, and disbelief has surpassed fear in the minds of the people in the plaza. They wander dazed among the wreckage, trying to determine who among them is alive and who is dead.

  Far above them, a portion of the Sun, like a wedge of pie, flickers and goes dark.

  SAVED

  When she sees the identity code on the comm panel, her heart leaps. She is just preparing for bed — she is dressed only in a smock, and her yellowing hair is undone — but she
hits the receive button immediately.

  Her daughter’s image appears above the pad. The reception quality is poor: bits of her keep shivering off to one side. She must be projecting from an old public booth.

  “Hi, Mom,” she says.

  “Ama, where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried to death about you!”

  “I know,” Amarantha says. “I’m sorry.” She is leaning against one side of the booth, so that her left arm disappears out of the field. Her electrician’s uniform looks as though it has been slept in. Her beautiful hair is hidden beneath a soiled cap.

  “Are you all right? Where are you?”

  “I can’t tell you,” Amarantha says. The booth is poorly lit. Her dark projection seems to suck all the light out of the room. “I have to keep moving. I’ve been sleeping outdoors for two days.”

  “What’s going on, Ama? Security people have been to your domus. They’ve confiscated your things.”

  “I thought they might.”

  “They’ve been harassing me, too. They think you’re involved in an assault on Second Son.”

  “I was.”

  Amarantha’s mother puts her hand to her mouth. “By the Stone! I knew you should never have gotten mixed up with him. I knew it would be nothing but trouble.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Amarantha says hotly. “You thought it was wonderful, me dating such an important person. You were all excited about it.”

  “Let’s not argue now, Amarantha. This isn’t the time.”

  “I’m not arguing, Mother. You’re the one who’s arguing.”

  “All right, all right.” Her mother raises her hands in exasperation. “You didn’t really try to shoot him, did you?”

  “I’m only sorry I didn’t hit the little bastard.” Amarantha’s green eyebrows bunch together. Because of the dirty respirator hiding the rest of her face, her mother cannot tell if their motion indicates anger or amusement. Her eyes are reddened and ringed with exhaustion.

  Amarantha’s mother struggles to speak. Conflicting emotions within her vie for expression. Finally she simply asks, “Why?”

  “It’s a long story. I don’t have time right now.” Amarantha turns her head and looks around, as if afraid that someone is behind her. As the fabric pulls tight, her mother notices a dark bulge in Amarantha’s jacket, a frightening and unfamiliar shape. “Mom, you’ve heard about the cave-in?”

  “Why?” Amarantha’s mother asks, her stomach turning with fear. “You didn’t have something to do with that, too, did you?”

  “No,” Amarantha says quickly. “I wasn’t anywhere near. But Second Son is going to say I set off the explosion.”

  “What? What the hell is going on, Ama?”

  Amarantha takes a deep breath, then explains: “It took me a while to figure it out. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t tracked down after I tried to shoot Second Son. I was hiding, but Second Son sees everything through the cameras, so how could I possibly be eluding him, no matter how much I ran?” Amarantha’s hand shakes as she rubs her forehead. She is weak with exhaustion. “He was saving me. He was planning to bomb the statue all along, and he was letting me run around loose for a while so he could blame it on me. He needed a scapegoat, and I’m perfect for it. He’s going to say I set off the explosion trying to kill him.”

  “But why?” Amarantha’s mother asks. “Why would he do something like that?”

  “Who knows?” Amarantha says bitterly. “The man is insane.”

  Amarantha’s mother glances involuntarily over her shoulder at the camera on the ceiling. “I don’t think you mean to say that.”

  “You’re right. The word ‘insane’ doesn’t even begin to describe him.” Amarantha looks at her chronometer. “I’ve got to go. I just wanted to let you know what was going on. I didn’t do it. All right? No matter what anyone tells you, no matter what evidence Second Son cooks up, remember: I didn’t do it.”

  “Oh, Ama,” her mother says. “Please come home. I’m sure we can work something out . . .”

  “Don’t!” Amarantha turns her head away. “Don’t start now, Mom. I couldn’t handle it.”

  Her mother reaches out to touch her, but her hands disappear into the space between their holograms. “Amarantha,” she says. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Mom. And . . . I’m sorry.”

  “For what, dear?”

  Amarantha reaches to the side and pushes a button. “Whatever,” she says. Her image shrinks and flickers out, leaving only ghost shadows in the air.

  There will be no more darkness, no more shadows in men’s eyes.

  There will be no more hunger, no more thirst of the body or of the soul.

  There will be no more gates, no more bars, no more locks, no more barriers between man and man.

  There will be no more fear. There will be no more fear. There will be no more fear.

  There will be no more death.

  “Hymn of the End Time” (apocryphal)

  THE SLOW, INEVITABLE SLIDE

  Reluctantly, Edward presses the comm button and tells Marta he is ready for his next patient.

  He has not worn the armor in the two days since Astrid left him. There is no way he can undo the damage he has done; the most he can do is to not make things any worse. So he has been sitting home alone, doing nothing. He has not dared to speak to Image, to admit his failure. He has performed his duties as a doctor only halfheartedly. The patients keep coming, especially since the cave-in, but he has begun to feel like a factory worker on an assembly line. He cannot help but think of how fragile his patients’ bodies are, how transitory. It’s the serum, he realizes, the serum that enables him to breathe the fumatory. It is affecting his mind as it alters his metabolism. His headaches are growing worse each day, but when he goes without the serum the effects of withdrawal are even more painful. He is trapped.

  His heart sinks as Faith Lessup walks into his office. Her hand rests on her belly, which is huge. She is close to term now. Her child could be born at any time.

  “Have a seat,” he says quietly.

  Mrs. Lessup senses his mood. Silently she lowers herself into the chair on the other side of the desk.

  “There’s something I need to tell you.” Edward bows his head and rubs his throbbing forehead. “Something I should have told you before. I’d like to say I was waiting for some tests to confirm it before we spoke, but the truth is I just kept putting it off.”

  Mrs. Lessup leans forward. “Are you all right, Dr. Penn? Your face is so red . . .”

  “No,” Edward says. “No, I’m not all right.” He raises his head for a fraction of a second, then lowers it again. “Your child is suffering from a condition called microphthalmia, meaning his eyes are severely underdeveloped, perhaps nonexistent.”

  Mrs. Lessup stiffens in her seat and makes a small noise.

  “Our options are extremely limited,” Edward continues. “If there is at least rudimentary optical tissue, and it is not diseased, we could use electrical stimulation to keep the nerves and muscles toned. We could use prostheses to keep his sockets from collapsing as his face grows. It’s conceivable that the eyes might partially regenerate, permitting a low level of vision. Or a transplant might be possible if a child of the right age and genotype dies with his eyes intact.”

  Edward hears Mrs. Lessup start to cry, but he does not have the strength to comfort her, or even to look her in the face.

  “This is all assuming, of course, that the Neonatal Assessment Board allows the child to live . . . which is, I’m afraid, quite unlikely.”

  The office is very still. The lights flicker momentarily under a power surge.

  “The other option — the humane option — would be to simply have a Deathsman waiting in the delivery room.”

  Mrs. Lessup sniffles. “You consider that . . . humane?”

  “Humane, yes,” Edward says, raising his head. “For the child, and for you.”

  “I’m not going to give up my child.”


  Edward stares at her through bleary eyes. The pressure in his head feels as if it about to split him wide open. “That’s entirely up to you, of course — at least for now — but you may want to consider . . .”

  She stands abruptly, knocking her chair backwards. “I’m not going to give up my child before he’s even born!”

  Finally, Edward can stand no more. “For Koba’s sake,” he snaps, “what’s the point?”

  “I can’t stay here,” Mrs. Lessup says, backing toward the door. “I have to go.”

  “Mrs. Lessup, wait . . .” Edward rises and takes a step in her direction, then falters as pain explodes in the right side of his head. He cries out, dimly hearing the door slam behind her. The pain disappears, replaced by an insidious numbness. Edward’s left leg slips out from under him. He tries to steady himself against the desk, but he cannot feel its surface. With his right hand he manages to push himself into his chair. He leans forward and hits the intercom.

  “Marta,” he croaks. “Help me.”

  PERPETUAL TRIBUTE

  From her experience as an electrician and the social experimentation of her younger years, Amarantha has an excellent sense of the city. It doesn’t take her long to find a service elevator that goes directly down to Deck Seven. From there, she knows, she can pick one of dozens of other elevators that will take her still further into the bowels of the city. It’s simple logic: the deeper she goes, the safer she will be.

  She presses the call button and waits impatiently for the car to arrive. She is disguised in the gray robes of a stonemute, an acolyte who has given up her home, her possessions, and even her voice to God. Her features are hidden in the shadows of the cowl, but with her face on every comm in the city she knows it is only a matter of time before someone recognizes her. Technically she is only wanted for questioning, but the crime is so heinous, and the certainty of her guilt so subtly but definitively implied, that she doubts she would survive the trip to custody.