Steel Sky (4 page)

The image begins to flicker. Edward stares into the hologram as it fluctuates in and out, searching through the static. He cannot say why, but he senses that something is wrong with the child. An irrational fear grips him. Then the tank fails completely, and the child’s image dissolves into ions.

Edward remains staring at the empty space. He slams his fist against the machine, but the image does not return. Mrs. Lessup is making noises of alarm. “This . . . this thing never works right,” he says absently, gesturing at the machine. He tries to call the image forth in his mind again. What did he think he saw?

“How did the baby look to you, Doctor?”

Edward notes the worried tone in her voice and calms himself. He has broken the golden rule of medicine: never let your patient know when something is troubling you. “Healthy,” he says, in as professional a tone as he can muster. “Your baby is very healthy. Why don’t you get dressed, and we can discuss it?”

He turns his back to her and waits for her to dress. He looks down. Judging from the marks on the floor, a separate office was once connected to this lab so that doctors could leave their patients to change in peace. But that must have been long ago.

He tries to shake his sense of dread, but it will not quit him. He cannot seem to approach the problem in a clear-headed, scientific fashion. Since his mother’s death, things have become confused. His work, the people around him — nothing seems quite as real as it once did. His thoughts are broken up by a nagging sense of something left uncompleted.

He ignores the growing ache in his head and summons up his resolve. He needs to work less and sleep more, that is all.

“Doctor Penn . . .” The voice of Edward’s secretary comes from his ident.

Edward sighs. “Can it wait, Marta?”

“I’ve been monitoring the Security channel, as you requested,” she says quickly. “They think there’s a Deathsman in the building. Headed for Mr. Mosley’s room.”

“Damn.” Edward stares at his panel on his ident for a moment as if wondering why this was not on his schedule. “Damn!” he repeats. “Doctor — ”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Lessup.” He pushes open the door and runs through. Mrs. Lessup yelps and ducks behind the exam table to protect her modesty. As the door slides shut behind him, Edward turns and shouts: “Don’t forget to make another appointment!”

BUILDING BLOCKS

Second Son looks down. The city lies sprawled beneath his feet like the blocks he used to play with when he was a child. From above it is possible to see the original elegance with which the Hypogeum was designed. The oldest buildings, though lost beneath layer upon layer of new construction, have imposed their geometries on the architecture above. In the center is the Atrium, a tapered trapezoid of beveled glass, with its causeway leading to the Hall Mediary. Upriver are the gray, boxy structures of the industrial sector; in the other direction are the high-class dwellings, each facade angled to catch the light of the artificial sun. As the eye approaches the edges, the buildings become more sophisticated in design: sleek, shiny curves of glass and plastic grow up the sides of the great dome, culminating in this building, the Chandelier, which hangs glistening like a collection of soap bubbles above the city. To live in the Chandelier is the pinnacle of success; all other citizens are below you, and nothing is above but the steel Sky and never-ending rock.

Second Son quickly sidesteps across the translucent floor to the furnished half of the room where a small rug interferes with the precipitous view. His father, who is known simply by the family name of Orcus, strides easily across the empty space to the very edge. A single pane of hard, clear plastic curves up to become a wall before him, the only thing between him and a four-hundred-meter drop. Second Son stood there once. The vertigo made him pass out.

Orcus turns with a quick pivot that makes his surtout, the robed uniform of a null-class citizen, swirl around him. He has many similarly dramatic mannerisms. He once told Second Son that half the essence of power is the mere appearance of power. Perhaps that is why the men of their family take the depilatory treatment: to resemble Koba in his later days. And the fingernails? Second Son supposes they do it merely to look creepy. As with several generations of the family, Second Son had his removed, roots and all, at the same time he was circumcised.

“The matter is not open for debate,” Orcus says. “The Orcus men have maintained the purity of our bloodline in this way for thirteen generations. That tradition will not end with you.”

“But does it have to be her?” Second Son cannot seem to control his voice; his question comes out in a high-pitched whine.

“Yes, it does. In time you’ll come to see the wisdom of my decision.”

“But she hates me!” Second Son struggles to keep his voice in a lower register.

“Nonsense. She merely despises your weakness. And rightly. It is your unwillingness to take the necessary steps to becoming a man that incites her to tease you the way she does. If you are strong, she will respect you.”

“I’ve tried, Father. She still terrorizes me!”

“She does not ‘terrorize’ you.” Orcus turns his head. In profile, his head reminds Second Son of a crowbar, running almost in a straight line from the tip of his nose to his forehead before curving around his smooth cranium. “You have no idea what terror is.”

“What about the time she set that snare for me, so that I was left hanging by my feet in the family room? Have you forgotten that?”

“No.” The barest figment of a smile creases his father’s face. “I remember.”

Second Son feels his cheeks turn red with shame.

“You should not have fallen into that trap,” his father says. “In the future, you will encounter other traps of different types from less benign sources. You must learn to evade them all.”

Second Son throws himself on the couch, arms crossed. What can he say? How can he make his father understand? He cannot carry this burden. It is impossible.

“Stop sulking. You could do much worse. Your mother wasn’t much of a woman, but I married her. I saw where my duty lay, and I followed it. You have things much easier. My duty was a sacrifice, but yours should be a pleasure, really. Dancer is smart. She’s beautiful. She’s ambitious.”

“She’s not as beautiful as she thinks she is.”

“Listen, boy, you just have to marry her, let her bear children — keep the name of Orcus alive. No one said you have to be faithful to her. Hell, I’d have gone mad if your dull-witted mother was the only woman I ever charvered.”

“Stop talking about Mother like that.”

“What does it matter? She’s with the Stone now. And probably happier for it. What about that girl you’re always mooning over? The skinny one with the green hair?”

“Amarantha.” Second Son squirms in his seat, thinking of her.

“That’s the one. She’s a bit dull, but she seems worth a little trouble. You can still sleep with her, as long as you’re careful.”

“If she wants me.”

“If she wants you?” His father’s voice rises in indignation. “Hump, you’re null-class, an Orcus! What
she
wants is immaterial.”

His father’s use of the humiliating nickname is a deliberate insult. Second Son tries to ignore it. “It’s not that simple,” he says.

“
Make
it that simple. Damn it, son! I’m offering you the
world
, don’t you see?”

“Dancer wasn’t meant for me, Father! She was meant for Stone.”

Orcus crosses the floor in two long strides and grabs Second Son by the bicep, hauling him to his feet. “In case you haven’t noticed, Hump,” he hisses, “your elder brother is dead!” His fingers dig into Second Son’s flesh. “And as absurd as it sounds,
you
must take his place!”

“Stop it!” Second Son cries. “You’re hurting me!”

“Koba’s eyes, you’re pathetic!” Orcus drags Second Son to the door and pushes him through. “Get out. I have work to do.”

Second Son stumbles around to face his father, desperate for one last attempt. “Father, it’s unseemly for a man to marry an older woman. Can’t I marry Second Daughter instead?”

His father glowers down at him. His bulk nearly fills the doorway. “No,” he says. “In five days you and your older sister will be married. The decision is made!” He slams the door in Second Son’s face.

Second Son stares at the door, catching his breath, waiting until his pulse returns to normal. Glancing around to make sure no one is watching, he retreats down the hall and locks himself in the servant’s laundry alcove. He likes how small the room is, how secluded. When he is here, he has no problems, no connection to the world outside. He sits on the floor, hidden between the machines and a gigantic pile of clothes, nestling into them, inhaling their earthy scent. He unclips his portable monitor from his belt and activates it. The screen flickers to life, still attuned to the camera he was watching last time — the camera he always watches — and he smiles. On the screen, a young man and woman are making love. The woman is lying flat upon a bed, head back and eyes closed, with her long green hair spread out around her like a web, like a halo of fissures in fractured crystal . . . He watches them for a long time, relishing the sickly feeling in his stomach as his excitement curdles and his anger grows, meditating carefully on his father’s advice.

TWO LIFETIMES

Amarantha Kirton watches Cadell’s backside with approval as he crosses the room to pour her a glass of water. He catches her watching him, and there is a hint of a swagger on his way back. “Now
that
was something special,” he says as he hands her the cup and slips back into bed.

Amarantha sips the water and smiles. “You have a high opinion of yourself, don’t you?” she teases.

“A high opinion of
us
,” Cadell says, stretching languidly across the bed, kicking against the sheets that have bunched up at its foot. Like other fashionable young men in the Hypogeum, he shaves the hair above his forehead into a widow’s peak while wearing the rest pulled back in a long ponytail. His face is narrow and handsome, with the untroubled smoothness of youth. He rests his head on Amarantha’s naked stomach.

She leans back, running her fingers through his hair, and takes a deep breath, enjoying the moment. They have free time ahead of them: two chronons till lights-out, and two lifetimes after that. The future for them is unwritten, limitless, and dizzying in its possibilities. Resting her hand on Cadell’s head, she looks absently at the ceiling. She imagines it peeling away, like a sheet of paper, floating off in the breeze and rising all the way to the Sky, the steel dome roof of the Hypogeum. She sees the Sky crack along its seams and crumble, great chunks of broken metal tumbling and disintegrating into dust. Beyond is the Stone, which according to the tenets of orthodox Geospiritualism extends forever. Amarantha watches as it splits apart, fissures racing through it at the speed of sound until it shatters in a crackle of blinding white energy, revealing . . . what?

Anything. It could be absolutely anything at all.

Her attention is drawn back to mundane dimensions by the soft whirring noise of the camera on the ceiling as it refocuses on them. The black hemispheres — each exactly the size of a human eye — are normally silent, but this one has lately developed a personality, as if it were a third person in their lives: an intrusive, dull-witted cousin. Cadell, feeling her body tense, raises his head. She tries to erase the look of anger on her face, but she is too slow.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

“Those things,” she says, gesturing toward the camera. “Watching us every moment of our lives.”

“Don’t think about it,” he soothes. “You’ll only upset yourself.”

“I hate them,” she whispers. “I wish we could tear the damn things down.”

Cadell sits up, pulling the blankets with him and covering their bodies. “They’re just doing their jobs, the same as the rest of us. Besides,” he adds more quietly, “you can’t get anywhere in this world if you make them angry at you.”

“All right.” She kisses his forehead. “Lay down. I’ll be good.”

Cadell frowns, not trusting her reassurances but uncertain what else to do. He rests his head on her shoulder and closes his eyes.

Amarantha knows that Cadell does not understand her anger toward the Scrutators. His confusion is her own fault. She has told him that she once spent time with Second Son, whose family controls the cameras, and she told him that it did not go well, but she never told him, or anyone, just how bad it had been.

It had happened more than a year before. Amarantha was a beautiful young woman newly introduced to the social scene. Her family was neither famous nor rich, though by the complicated rules of birth and occupation they were still primaries. Amarantha and her mother carried the extra burden of being Engineered, part of a failed attempt to improve the genetic strain of the Hypogeum. “It’s the tossed salad haircut,” the other women whispered when they thought she wasn’t listening, but she knew they spoke out of jealousy. With her combination of beauty, energy, and charm, she outshone them all.

Then one day she learned that she had attracted the attention of Second Son. She never understood why Second Son had taken an interest in her. Perhaps he was titillated by the idea of consorting with a woman of lesser rank, or perhaps it was because she was Engineered. At any rate, the opportunity to meet such a prestigious young man was too intriguing to pass up, even if he was a few years younger than she was.