Steel Sky (30 page)

She tilts her head. “You don’t look like a doctor.”

“No. I suppose not.” He unlocks the other gauntlet and tosses it aside. The loud noise it makes when it hits the floor disturbs him. “Is the door locked?”

Astrid nods. “This is
my
room. No one comes in unless I want them to. Not even Samael.”

Edward undoes the latches on his cuirass. He does not ask who Samael is. “Help me get this off,” he says.

As they lift the cuirass over his head, the pain flairs again. Gritting his teeth, he shrugs off the hauberk undershirt as quickly as he can. Astrid makes a face when she sees his wound. “You look terrible,” she says. The skin is not broken, but it is discolored black and yellow. The area around it is inflamed and swollen. He touches it gingerly. The stiffness indicates internal bleeding.

“What are you going to do about that?” she asks.

“There’s not much I can do here,” he says. “Do you have access to steroids or pain killers?”

“Not without calling somebody in.”

“No. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here. What do you have right now?”

She shrugs. “I have some musth. Fifty bar per milliliter.”

He thinks about it. “I’d better not,” he says at last. Though his kidney hurts, his skin is pink and his bladder is full, both signs of normal renal function. “Best just to leave it alone. It may not be as serious as it looks.”

“Suit yourself. But I could use a drop myself right about now.” She opens up another cabinet and removes a small vial of musth. Removing the stopper, she lets a drop fall into her ear, shuddering with delight as it enters her system.

Edward removes his boots, watching her. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m dressed like this?”

“I know why you’re dressed like that,” she says. “I know who you are. We hear what goes on above, you know. We’re not completely cut off.” She regards him with half-lidded eyes. Her sculpted face could be considered beautiful or plain, he thinks, depending on how one looks at her.

“I’ve never had a chance to talk to anyone about my . . . hobby,” Edward says quietly. “What do you think of what I’m doing?”

“I think it’s brilliant. I only wish you came down here some time, to wipe out the dregs. We need someone to clean up this cesspool.”

“I’ve almost never operated beneath Deck Four. It’s harder to get around the lower levels undetected. There’s not as much room to sneak around.”

She tosses her head, unimpressed by this excuse. “So,” she says. “Do you want to have sex?”

IN THE SHADOW OF KOBA

Cadell steps off the upriver transport and walks up the wide marble steps, gazing up at the mammoth statue of Koba carved from the wall of the great cavern. Koba’s arms are bent back, stretching across the cavern ceiling, his idealized features twisted in perpetual agony from the effort of supporting the Sky. From this angle, the sculpture looks treacherously unbalanced. It seems as if at any moment Koba will topple forward and crush the city he is supposed to be protecting.

Cadell hurries past the priests in their bright chasubles and kamelaukions, past the silent stonemutes in their grey robes. Glancing up, he notices that years of ceremonial offerings have blackened the insides of Koba’s legs. Condensation runs down the surface of the statue like sweat. Warm, plump drops hit the wide plaza at irregular intervals, making dark spots on the granite.

The other Rakehells are waiting in a smaller, adjacent plaza cut off from the light of the Sun by a sprawl of buildings. The only illumination comes from glowbands on regularly spaced columns. The air smells of ozone and oiled metal.

Thraso sees Cadell and waves. “We were afraid you weren’t going to make it,” he says. Thraso has an amplifier built into his respirator so he does not have to yell to be heard over the hum of the hydroelectric complex.

“Sorry,” Cadell replies, jogging up to them. “I was with Amarantha.”

“I’m sure you were. I was just telling Eno here about her lawsuit.” Thraso moves to one side, and Eno Selachian, the Culminant’s son, steps forward. Like his father, his face is nondescript, a sort of political camouflage. But there is a confidence in the way he carries himself that indicates he is someone who is used to giving orders. “Eno,” Thraso says, “this is Cadell Tichener, a very promising young member of our organization.”

Cadell leans forward to click idents, wondering how Thraso ever managed to get introduced to such an important figure. He tries to click twice — a sign of enthusiasm — but Eno’s arm is already moving away, and Cadell’s ident only bounces off Eno’s fingers. Cadell feels his face turn red. He has only just met the man, and already he has committed a social blunder.

“Your girlfriend is very brave to be taking on Second Son,” Eno says.

“Yeah, she’s something.” Cadell has to shout to be heard over the hum.

“If she wins, it could be very helpful to our attempt to disrupt the power of the Orcus family.”

“We hope to win, of course,” Cadell says. “We think our case is good, but if there’s any way you could put in a good word for her . . .”

Thraso coughs, and Eno looks embarrassed. Cadell has gone too far again. He takes a step backward, mentally kicking himself.

“I think we’re all here,” Thraso says loudly. “Why don’t we get started?”

The group of Rakehells gathers closer together. Including Eno and Cadell, there are twenty of them. Though they are all of differing builds and heights, each wears dark clothing and long, straight hair. In the pallid light from the glowbands, they look like a single man in a crowd of mirrors.

A very different looking man is standing to one side. “This is Orel Fortigan,” Thraso announces, touching the man’s shoulder. “He’s been in the tunnels before. He’ll be our guide.”

Cadell regards the guide dubiously. His plump face is covered with enormous pimples that are only partially covered by an old red scarf, and as he stares back at Cadell his expression is one of disinterest mingled with disdain. Curiously, while his jumpsuit is worn and soiled, his ident is shiny and new, of an expensive-looking design Cadell has never seen before.

The guide clears his throat. “The tunnels are quite extensive,” he says. Because of his respirator and scarf, Cadell can barely hear him. “I’ve got a route mapped, loaded in my tengig. Stay close to me at all times. It’s easy to get lost, and we may not be able to find you if you wander off. And stay quiet. The Rats have excellent hearing. Let’s try not to antagonize them. They’re violent when provoked, but I think there’s still a chance we can come to peaceful terms with them.”

Thraso laughs. “And here are your weapons!” he shouts, opening a case at his feet. He hands a soft gun to each of the Rakehells. They murmur their appreciation as they examine the guns. “They’re set to stun,” Thraso says, “so as not to damage their skins, in case you want a memento. You can finish them off with a knife once they’re down. And remember: don’t be greedy. Let’s not go shooting more of them than we can carry home.”

Thraso drops a soft gun into Cadell’s hands. “Ready?” he asks.

Cadell looks at the gun resting in his palm. The smooth contours of the grip seem to beg to be held. The anodized metal glistens in the green light of the glowbands. “I can’t come with you,” he says, offering the gun back to Thraso. “I have to get back to Amarantha.”

Thraso only stares at the gun, not touching it. “Don’t be stupid, Cadell. You know how the game works.”

“I can’t go.” Cadell looks down at his feet. “Amarantha needs me. I only came to see you off.”

“Are you serious? You’d put one woman before your whole future?”

“She
is
my future,” Cadell says, feeling his mouth go dry.

“I’m not going to stand here and argue with you,” Thraso hisses, grabbing the gun. “That’s Eno Selachian over there! Do you have any idea what I had to do in order to be introduced to him?
Do you have any idea?
”

Cadell looks back at the city, the tiny skyline framed within Koba’s left knee. “I have to go,” he says.

Thraso’s blood-red eyes crinkle into tiny slits. “Then go. You had your chance, Cadell. I thought maybe you and I . . .” He shakes his head and turns away. “You had your chance.”

POINTS OF ORDER

Amarantha reads the inscription over the doorway:
The Pursuit of Justice Is Not Itself Justice.
She has heard the words before, but never thought about them deeply. The slogan always seemed obvious, even trite. Now she wonders what it actually means, why it is so important to justify chiseling it into marble. Is it a summation of guiding principles, or an apology for what is to come?

The examination booth is a small, pastel-blue cylinder. A black band — a camera — encircles the room at eye level. A single chair faces two monitors. One monitor shows herself, as seen through the black band, oddly compressed and pale. The other shows Second Son entering his own booth. He stands for a moment, looking calmly around, then sits down.

There are no accommodations for food, water, or any other bodily needs in the booth. The ideals of the Second Pandectors are simple: if a case cannot be argued by a single person in the time between meals, then it is not an honest case.

Amarantha sits in the simple chair and swivels around. The seal on the door is so tight she can barely discern its outline. Cool air blows down on the top of her head.

“Welcome.” Image’s soothing voice fills the room, coming from everywhere at once. “You are now in the eye of justice. Everything you do or say from this moment on will be recorded and transmitted, so choose your words with care. This system was designed by the Second Pandectors to allow the quick resolution of grievances between citizens. You and Mister Orcus will each argue your cases. You will each be allowed to call up three episodes from the master scrutation records to support your argument. Any event recorded by the cameras is available to you. I will arbitrate the proceedings and remind you of points of order. When you have both made your cases, records of the proceedings will be reviewed at leisure by the veniremen, twenty ordinary citizens selected at random. They will render judgment and punishment, if any, according to the laws of the Hypogeum. Do you understand?”

Amarantha nods. On the second monitor, Second Son murmurs agreement.

“You may each argue independently,” the simulated intelligence says, “or Mister Orcus may choose to hear your argument before presenting his own.”

“I’ll wait.” Second Son’s voice is small and tinny. He seems to be familiar with the camera systems here. He looks directly at Amarantha, his distorted face bland and menacing. Amarantha looks away, but there is nothing else in the room on which to focus her eyes; the overwhelming ambience of the examination booth is one of exposure to an almost indecent degree.

“You may proceed, Miss Kirton,” Image says. “Remember, the ideal of the Second Pandectors is swift, uncomplicated justice. Please keep your arguments brief and to the point.”

Amarantha looks up at the dome light in the ceiling, as if Image is up there. It isn’t, of course. Image isn’t anywhere. “I should just start talking now?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“All right.” Amarantha closes her eyes and clasps her hands together. “Second Son tried to rape me.” With the words out, the fear spoken, she begins to feel the anger, the energy. Her voice grows louder. “I’ve talked to other women who’ve had similar experiences. The word they use most often to describe how it feels is ‘violated.’ That’s the word that comes closest to describing the way an experience like this tears at you. But there are really no words to describe it, no phrase that can capture the feeling. All I can say is, if you’ve had something like this done to you, then you know what it feels like. If you haven’t, you can’t. That’s all. You can’t imagine what it feels like.”

She looks down at the tiny image of Second Son on the monitor. “And this man is responsible,” she says. Second Son looks back at her impassively, as if he is not even paying attention.

“I don’t want to look at him,” she continues. “If I had a choice, I’d never see him again. But I don’t have a choice, because the memory of what he did has reshaped my entire life. I can’t go out without constantly looking over my shoulder. I carry a small knife with me now, everywhere I go, because I’m afraid. I can’t stand to be touched any more by the man I love. I can’t even talk to my friends without worrying about what they’ll think of me.”

She realizes she is trembling. She thought she had this under control, but she doesn’t. Not by a long shot. She feels her voice rise, and she lets it, lets all the anger pour out of her.

“Everything I do, every waking moment, is polluted by what he did,” she shouts, pointing at Second Son. “And I want him to pay for it!”

BORN DOWN, LOOKING UP

Edward rests on one elbow, languid and content. He looks at Astrid, who is illuminated by a single glowstick on her side of the bed. The fine hairs on her arm shine like tiny candles. His thoughts roll slowly, lightly, full of nothing. It is so much easier, he thinks, to be empty.

“Is it true you tried to kill Orcus himself?” she asks.