by Oisin McGann
Saggs regarded him for a moment and then nodded. “All right, you’re in with Nestor. Take it easy.” He turned to the thin-figured, pale boy working on the punching bag. “Nestor! You’re in the ring with Wheat! He’s got a broken nose, so I just want to see body shots from the pair of you. Touches to the head, nothing to the face. And I want to see you moving those feet, Nestor!”
Once Sol had his head guard on, one of the guys helped him with his gloves. They were Gregor’s old gloves—real leather, not like the synth-fiber most of the other guys used. After climbing through the ropes, he bounced around on the sprung floor shaking his arms out. Nestor was an easy opponent; skinny and tall, he’d taken up training about a year ago because he was being bullied. He was a bit of a dork, but he was all right. He’d never be a fighter, though. By the time he was eighteen, Sol would have the build for real middleweight competition.
Saggs called the start, and the two opponents circled each other, both up on the balls of their feet to change stance constantly, trying not to signal their intentions. Nestor was nervous, defensive, and every time Sol moved, his guard twitched. They traded a few easy shots, Sol dodging Nestor’s blows with an easy grace, not even needing his guard. A right hook forced Nestor to cover up, blocking his own view, and Sol followed up with two neat uppercuts to the kidneys. Nestor danced away, but Sol followed. Jabbing into Nestor’s guard, he brought his left around in a hook. Nestor covered his head and lashed out in fright.
His glove caught Sol straight in the nose.
Sol bellowed in pain, his face suddenly on fire, and something snapped. He rained a combination of punches in on Nestor’s head and body, restraint lost in a blind rage. The lighter boy crumpled under his assault.
“Sol! Break it up!” Saggs shouted.
Sol pounded Nestor’s guard out of the way, hitting him hard across the sides of the head, once, twice, three times. He followed his final right hook through with his elbow, catching Nestor on the temple. The other boy’s headgear was the only thing saving him from serious injury. Nestor collapsed to the floor and went limp.
“Sol!” Saggs roared. “Get the hell out of there, now!”
He ducked through the ropes and shoved Sol back to his corner. “You part when I say you part!”
Backing against the post, Sol looked past the coach at his fallen opponent. Breathing hard, he felt the animal glory of beating an enemy, but as the pain in his face faded, a sense of shame descended on him. Nestor was struggling to his feet, his nose and mouth bloodied, one of his eyes starting to swell. Sol started forward to apologize, but Saggs stopped him angrily, and Nestor glared at him and turned away.
“You’re out of sparring for three weeks,” Saggs snapped at him. “It was an accident that he tagged you. You should’ve seen that. Hit the showers and cool off. I don’t want to see you back here till Monday.”
“Yes, Coach.” Sol slipped through the ropes and jumped down to the floor of the gym.
After undoing the laces of his gloves with his teeth, he stuck the gloves under his armpits and pulled them off. Then he took off his head guard and threw everything into his bag. There were a few curious glances from some of the others working out in the gym as he headed for the changing rooms.
Sitting on one of the benches, he unwound the wraps from his hands and dropped them into his bag. Then he stripped and stood in the shower, letting the water pour over him. Looking at his hands, he thought of how his father had shown him as a child how to punch against a pillow. That was how he’d always worked out his aggression: punching a pillow. He leaned against the wall and let the soothing water fall on the back of his swollen neck.
Two of the other guys, Teller and Gant, came into the changing room.
“See the red mist out there, Sol?” Teller called.
“Beware the crazy red mist!” Gant chimed as he scooted from the chilly room into the showers.
Sol looked up into the spray, running his hands over his face, and then stepped out of the shower. He walked past Teller to his bag and started getting dressed.
“Hear you were at that crane wreck,” Teller said in a quieter voice. “What was it like?”
“High,” Sol replied tersely.
“Come on, talk to us, man! Did you see the bodies? What’s it like seein’ someone die?”
“Tell, get a life, will ya?” Sol rolled his eyes. “You’re like a kid—”
“Aw, go on!” Gant urged him as he spat out water.
“Were they in pieces? Did y’see bits of ’em? I hear you burst when you fall from that high…like a bag of guts!”
“Sick!” Teller laughed. “Hey, did you guys hear about Harmon Effram? The big Jew who used to train over at the Fourth Quad gym?”
Sol remembered him, a regular worshipper at the same temple his mother used to go to. A religious type; there weren’t many full-on Jews left in the city. Most people in Ash Harbor were a mix of races—with everybody living on top of one another, you couldn’t help it.
“What about him?” he asked.
“Big Yid got squashed last week,” Teller informed them. “He was working in the hydroponic gardens over at the fertilizer plant. The balcony above him collapsed, dropped a ten-ton fertilizer tank on him. It was like he was stamped on by a huge foot or something. Like somebody’d painted a huge, wide Harmon all over the floor.”
Sol felt mildly ill.
“Kind of like what you did to Nestor, eh, Sol?” Gant chuckled.
“That was just stupid,” Sol muttered.
“Ah, nobody likes the little weed, anyway.” Gant wrinkled his nose. “Maybe he’ll get the message now.”
The door of the changing room was opening as he said it, and there stood Nestor, bag in hand. They lapsed into silence, but he was already turning around and heading out of the door.
“Nice one, Gant.” Teller shook his head. “What did ya have to say that for?”
“It’s the truth.” Gant shrugged.
Sol cursed to himself, quickly lacing up his sneakers. Gregor was always checking in with Saggs to see how his son was doing. If Nestor quit training because of the beating Sol had given him, there’d be hell to pay. And Sol was feeling guilty enough already. He grabbed his bag and hurried into the gym. Glancing around, he strode to the far door and stepped out into the alley. Nestor was nowhere to be seen. Shifting his bag onto his shoulder, Sol pulled up his hood, jammed his hands in his pockets, and started off home.
By the time Sol got back to the apartment, it was after ten. He walked in to find the place in darkness, and reached for the living room light switch. Nothing happened. Another blackout. Clicking his tongue, he found the small methane lamp in the cupboard behind the front door, lit it, and walked through the dim apartment to his room.
The blackouts seemed to occur much more frequently than they had when he was a child, but it was hard to tell. Everything seemed better back then. The place was too quiet; he needed some noise. They had a little rechargeable radio, and he switched it on, listening to the news as he made a hot cup of spirulina soup. He hadn’t taken his supplements that day, but he’d do it later. The diet in Ash Harbor left a lot to be desired. He spooned the powder into a mug, lit the small gas stove that they now kept for these occasions, and put some water on to boil. It heated noisily as he listened to the headlines. There had been a murder, a man from the Fourth Quadrant. A daylighter: one of the men who worked to clear the dome’s surface of ice and snow.
Sol’s father was a daylighter. They lived in the Third Quad, but…He leaned over the radio, listening intently. The murdered man had already been identified: his name was Tommy Hyung. Sol didn’t recognize the name, but at least it wasn’t his father’s. Even so, the news left him feeling uneasy.
The water on the stove came to the boil, and he took the steaming mug to the window. The apartment was cold, and they had used up their heating quota for the month, but he needed the air.
A few of the windows around him were weakly illuminated with light from
the same kind of gas lamp that he was using. The city beyond was always moving, keeping them alive. Tightly packed buildings—some housing branches of the Machine itself—everything linked by ducts, cables, pipes, and driveshafts, all entwined around the multilevel roads used by pedestrians, cyclists, and mopeds more than cars these days. Private cars were becoming a thing of the past, having become too expensive for most people to maintain. Spare parts were at a premium, as was the electricity to power the vehicles themselves—most motor vehicles were many years old, and had a cobbled-together look about them. A few commercial trucks and vans passed from time to time.
The lights of the apartment block would be out until morning now. He could see that the other buildings on the grid were dark, and even the lights on the tramlines had gone off. He closed the window and went into the kitchenette to rinse out the mug and found the water had been cut off too. The tap released a last spurt and then nothing. Swearing under his breath, he checked the hot water, but it was gone as well. The people at Water First had sworn that all the problems had been fixed. This was the fourth time in a month, and the bills were going up all the time. There were numerous underground streams running into Ash Harbor, and they were surrounded by the ocean that lay under the pack ice. It was farcical that they couldn’t maintain a water supply. The water company could expect a belligerent phone call from Gregor when he came home. If he came home. Sol shivered, feeling the chill all of a sudden, overcome with weariness. He was too tired to do anything else but go to bed. Promising himself he’d get back up if he heard Gregor came in, Sol made for his bed, and moments after undressing, he was asleep under the covers.
Section 4/24: WEAPON
SOL WOKE WITH A TWITCH of his body, caught in the confused world between sleep and wakefulness, trapped for a last fleeting moment in the falling crane carriage. Looking at the alarm clock, he saw it was after seven A.M., but there was little trace of light from under his bedroom door. He got out of bed and opened his door to find the living room in darkness, even though the shutters were open. Peering out at the dome above the city, he could see only a gray glow. There must have been a heavy fall of snow during the night; the daylighters would be busy today. The apartment was cold; after pulling on his tracksuit, he slapped his arms around his body.
It was Saturday, but the weekends rotated for all the schools, and he had classes today. His school would be off Sunday and Monday. This system ensured that people kept moving through the city, one of the main sources of power for the Machine, and a key to its flywheels maintaining their momentum.
Gregor’s bed was still made, but that was not unusual—his dad was particular about neatness, so he could have come home and left again. But Sol could not see any sign that his father had returned; after two nights away, he would have wanted to say hello to Sol before going back to work. Surely he’d heard about Sol’s class witnessing the crane disaster? Sol shivered, blowing warm air into his hands as he put a mug of water in the microwave to heat. He always started his morning routine with a drink of hot water. The microwave didn’t come on. He checked the light switch; the electricity was still gone. Shaking his head, he left the mug where it was, picked up his skipping rope, and walked across the frigid floor to the middle of the living room. As he warmed up with some gentle skipping, he wondered if he should report his father missing. Gregor had never been away three nights without telling him. At least not since the bad days after he’d lost his previous job.
Sol’s eyes fell on the leatherette-upholstered chair in front of him, and the rope caught on his ankles. There lay his father’s scarf. Gregor had been wearing it when he’d last left for work. So he had been home. The scarf was wrapped up in a bundle, and Sol bent forward to pick it up. It was heavy and, as he unwound it, he fumbled with it and dropped what was inside. A dark gray gun hit the floor, clattering across the coated concrete.
Sol stared at it in disbelief, kneeling and touching it tentatively before taking hold of it. It was heavy, a solid weight in his hand. He had never seen a real gun before, but there were plenty in the old films on the web. Remembering from watching countless action films, he checked that the safety was on. Another catch on the bottom of the handle made the magazine—the clip—spring free, and he nearly dropped it. Through a slot on the side of the clip, he counted thirteen bullets. It was fully loaded. He slid the clip back into place in the handle of the gun, pushing it home with a satisfying click. Pointing it at the window, he aimed down the sights. He could see the top of his school, and he fired a few imaginary shots through the windows.
The scarf was lying discarded on the chair, and in its folds, he saw a piece of rice paper. He had been so entranced by the gun, he hadn’t noticed it. Unfolding it, he found a note, hastily scribbled in his father’s handwriting.
Sol. Keep this close to you. You’re in danger.
Steer clear of the police; they can’t be trusted. I’ll come back for you soon. Gregor.
Sol sank onto the chair, trying to imagine what could possibly make his father give him a gun. Gregor despised guns. Where did he even get it? Sol crumpled up the note and threw it into the recycler in the kitchen. Then he wrapped the gun back up in the scarf, pushed it down into the bottom of his bag, and got changed for school.
Ana Kiroa sat on the seat in the tram, half asleep, her head leaning against the pole that she held as the vehicle hummed down the street. It was crammed with people, and she knew that beneath the wheels the weight of the morning trams would be tilting the enormous gyroscopes that made up the central circles of the city. The trams worked in pairs, each moving up and down through different levels like barges through a lock, the weight of each full one heading into the city helping to lift an empty one to a higher level as it descended.
In other parts of the city, bridges and elevators carried people in the same way. Each person’s home was set a certain distance from their workplace, and their trip to and from work was roughly timed for best effect. It was part of a massive and intricate operation that kept energy running through Ash Harbor. Everything about the original parts of the city was carefully coordinated to produce and save that precious energy. Just heating the freezing air pumped in from outside was an enormous drain. It all required careful timing and cooperation. The people of Ash Harbor were well trained, the system having always been a part of their lives.
Ana looked out of the window up at the dull light falling through a small section of the dome’s gray hexagonal grid. The daylighters were slowly clearing the snow, and there would be better light soon. Pigeons, one of the only breeds of bird left in the world, whirled in flocks under the dome; at night, bats would take their place. The dark morning depressed her, and she imagined what it must be like to live in some of the other settlements around the planet. If there were any left—there had been no contact with anyone for years. Ash Harbor was the only settlement with a dome; all the rest were underground. Ana shivered at the prospect. The thought of a life without daylight was too awful to contemplate. The suicide rate in the city doubled whenever the light from the dome was completely blocked out by snow or clouds for an extended time.
The catastrophic climate change that had driven mankind into these protected enclaves could last for generations, and humans would need daylight to give them hope, and they would need a purpose to survive. And so the architects had created the dome…and the Machine.
The tram reached Ana’s stop, and she pushed through the close-pressed bodies to the sliding door. Hitting the button, she hopped down, feeling the bite of the cold air on her face. For a place with an artificial climate, the city could get a bit frigid at times. The Machine was running at close to full capacity; how could there not be enough heat? She didn’t remember it being this cold when she was young.
Alan Turing High School was a beige, utilitarian complex of reinforced concrete. Riddled with small windows, it was built to be well-lit and permanent. The outer walls were daubed with the colorful remonstrations of yet another generation of misunde
rstood youth. Two men dressed in conservative, dark gray suits and long coats were standing across the street from the entrance to the school. They did not look like normal visitors to the school. Shooting a glance at their faces, Ana saw that they were watching her as she made her way inside. Something about them made her nervous, but she shook the feeling off, annoyed at herself for being paranoid.
The school was only one story, but it sat above several levels of streets and apartment blocks. The city’s architects had shown remarkable foresight in their construction of the building. Many blocks on the top levels had paved roofs that were used as yards and meeting places, but the school had no roof at all except for the insulated awnings that could be drawn across. The students could look straight up at the dome, but the walls around them stopped them from being distracted by the sights of the city. Wherever possible, the schools in the city were on the highest levels. Children were judged to be in greatest need of the sunlight. This privilege was one of the advantages that had drawn Ana into teaching.
Her first class was mathematics. Students started to wander in, some of them muttering greetings to her that she returned as they sat down at their desks. No class was ever in a good mood for the first lesson of the morning.
When the bell rang, they were all in, except one. She didn’t need to check the roll to see who was missing.
“Does anybody know where Sol is?” she asked.
The police were waiting for Sol at the school entrance. Two serious-looking men in suits approached him as he walked up to the door.
“Solomon Wheat?” one of them asked.
“Yes?”
“Inspector Mercier, Criminal Investigation Section.” The man showed him a badge. “I wonder if we could ask you some questions about your father?”
Sol looked the man up and down, trying to show some attitude. His heart was pounding. Would they search him? How could he explain the gun in his bag? The cop was a little taller than he was, clean-cut, pale, and weak in the chin. He had a neatly trimmed mustache, mousy hair parted on one side, and slightly sunken eyes. The other man was larger, with a lantern jaw and no mustache, but otherwise the same. They probably even bought their clothes in the same place.
