Daylight Runner (4 page)

S
OL 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 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 misunderstood 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.

“This is Sergeant Baiev.” Mercier tilted his head in the direction of the second man.

“I haven't seen my father in three days,” Sol told them.

“Do you know where he is?”

“I wish we did. You see, I'm sorry to tell you that we have a warrant for his arrest. For the murder of a Mr. Tommy Hyung, a fellow daylighter. Would you mind coming with us?”

“Murder!” Sol exclaimed, stunned. “He can't be…I mean…Murder?”

“I'm afraid so, Mr. Wheat. Now if you'd just come with us—”

“I have a class—”

“Your teachers will be informed. I'm sure they'll understand.”

They led him to an unmarked black car parked on the corner. Baiev got behind the wheel, while Mercier sat beside Sol in the back. It was a blocky machine, and the engine sounded more powerful than a normal electric motor. Pulling away from the curb, Baiev steered it into the road, skillfully avoiding a group of teenagers on mopeds, and soon they were on the main western route, heading toward the closest section of city wall.

“When was the last time you saw your father?” the inspector asked him.

“Wednesday morning…. Aren't you supposed to be recording this or something? I thought there was supposed to be a—”

“You're not under arrest, Mr. Wheat. You're just assisting us with our investigation. Have you had any contact with your father since then?”

The school bag holding the gun was a heavy weight in Sol's lap. The note had said not to trust the police.

“No. I don't know where he is.”

Mercier eyed him thoughtfully. “You have no need to worry. It's merely our job to bring your father in. If he's innocent, then he has nothing to fear.”

“I don't know where he is,” Sol repeated. “Where are we going?”

“To the station. This won't take long. We'll return you to school when we've completed the interview.”

“I'm under eighteen. Shouldn't I have somebody with me or something?”

“We can assign you a social worker if you like. There's a lot of red tape involved, though. Your mother's deceased, isn't that right? A tram crash? You lost your older sister in the accident too, according to the ISS file. A tragedy. I lost one of my sisters to cancer recently. They used to be able to cure that, you know. We just don't have the drugs now. But at least we were ready for it. A tram accident—now, that's
very
sudden. Hard to take, I imagine.”

Sol hadn't thought about Nattie and his mother for
some time. It had been years since the accident. He hated this cop for bringing it up. His memories of his sister and his mother were fading treasures, recalled on quiet nights with a bitter mixture of fondness and distance. They were not for blunt discussion in the back of a police car.

The police station was twelve stories high, with an observatory on the top floor and metal grids on the windows. This was not a local branch; it was the CIS headquarters: center for all the major criminal investigations. Its gray and blue walls rose out of the clustered buildings around it, tall and imposing. The road took them to the fourth floor, and Baiev stopped outside the door. Mercier gently ushered Sol from the car. For a moment, Sol felt trapped. Some of the guys he trained with in the boxing club were regular visitors to police stations. They said there were weapons detectors on the doors.

“You can leave your things in the car,” Mercier told him.

Sol wasn't reassured; he was certain they'd search his bag. But they could do that anyway. He left the school bag on the backseat of the car and let the inspector lead him into the station.

Mercier led him past the front desk, where two officers were arguing with an enormous, pale-faced gangland type from the bottom levels and a pair of irate Filipinos. The five raised voices echoed down the hallway as Sol and his guide made their way deeper into the building.

“You will be safe here, Mr. Wheat,” Mercier told him.

“Don't let the atmostphere of the place alarm you. Or some of the people, for that matter. There is nothing to be scared of.”

This did little to put Sol's mind at ease. There were holding cells along this corridor, and the heavy doors, with their small openings, were an intimidating sight. At the end of the corridor, Mercier opened a door and waved him in.

“Ah, thank you, Inspector,” a voice greeted them.

Beyond the door was a gray room with no windows, lit by a single diode cluster hanging from the ceiling. There were three men in the room, all in the dark red uniform of the ISS, the Industrial Security Section. These people had authority wherever affairs of the Machine were involved. Which was pretty much everywhere. If you were to believe the rumors, there was no love lost between them and the CIS. One of the men, obviously of the highest rank, gestured to Sol to sit at the bare table in the center of the room. Controls for a recorder were set into the top of the table at one end, and there was a chair on either side.

“Thank you, Inspector,” the first man said again.