Steel Sky (51 page)

As he reaches upward, Orel feels a tiny rivulet running down the rock face. He leans forward eagerly and licks it up. The water is sandy and sour, but it runs in a steady trickle. Orel drinks for a long time. It brings new strength to his tired limbs.

He begins to climb again. After a while he hears Bernie’s voice over his shoulder. “I’ve been thinking,” Bernie says.

“About what?” Orel asks. He does not bother to turn and look. He keeps climbing.

“The Founders’ world could have been anywhere in the rock,” Bernie says. “They could have come from any direction.”

Bernie pauses. Orel senses that he is waiting for a response, to keep the interaction going. Politely, Orel says, “So?”

“Doesn’t it seem odd to you,” Bernie says, “that of all the directions the Founders’ world could be in relation to the Hypogeum, that it should happen to be straight up? Doesn’t that seem to be a curious coincidence?”

“It certainly makes my job harder,” Orel grunts, pulling himself up another half a meter.

“It couldn’t have been any easier for the Founders,” Bernie says. “Think of them carefully lowering all their supplies down this shaft. It must have been an enormous job. When they set out to found a new world, why didn’t they just dig a tunnel sideways, instead of straight down? It would have been much less difficult.”

“You’re right,” Orel says, stopping. “It never occurred to me.”

“Why go straight down?” Bernie asks. “What’s so special about
down
?”

Orel considers this. “It’s the direction of the pull of gravity,” he says.

“Right. Now under what circumstances might
down
be the best direction to travel?”

“When there’s something impassable above, something denser than rock.”

“Or less dense. Consider this: what if the universe isn’t solid rock all the way through, the way the Geospiritualists say? What if it’s only part rock, and the rest is empty space? What would happen?”

“The rock would fall.”

“Where?”

Orel thinks for a long time, his head resting against the cold, slick wall. He tries to remember what little he was taught about the obscure subject of gravity. “
Every particle of matter, however small, exerts a gravitational pull . . .
” wasn’t that part of it?

Suddenly, Orel opens his eyes. He can see the answer through the darkness, as if it as projected before him, in all its grandeur. “Into itself,” he says weakly. “Into a single, massive conglomeration of rock with a volume, with a
surface area
, unlike anything we’ve ever seen. A place where men could live. Thousands of them. Millions.
Billions
. And beyond that, nothing but
space
.”

“That’s where the Founders came from,” Bernie whispers in his ear. “That’s where you’re heading.”

Orel shakes his head. The image is too incredible to be believed. Another one of Bernie’s crazy theories. “It’s a beautiful idea,” he says reluctantly.

“And therefore,” Bernie says, “it must be true.”

FINAL ORDERS

Edward sits in his domus, dressed in a simple day-robe, looking out the window. The carpet beneath the untinted glass has grown pale and faded. Using only the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, Edward brings a cup of tea up to his mouth, concentrating fiercely as he sips it. The other fingers of his hand point out uselessly. He knows that exercise will not reverse the hemiplegia, but still he is determined to work his damaged nerves as much as they will stand.

As he lowers the cup to the table, the door opens, without a knock, without a signal. Second Son steps through the doorway. He walks across the room casually, as if he has lived here all his life, and seats himself across the table from Edward. Sunlight gleams off his hairless head.

He is silent. His eyes move up and down, studying Edward intently, but still with the same languid slowness, as if he has all the time in the world.

“You’re Second Son,” Edward says. “I’ve seen pictures of you.”

“It’s
Orcus
now. And let’s not play games, Edward. We know each other much more intimately than that. And you know why I’m here.”

With an effort, Edward lets go of the cup. “No,” he says, “I don’t.”

“I have a job for you, Edward. A special task that only you can carry out.”

“If you’re sick, you can visit me in the hospital, during office hours.”

“I said
no games
, Edward. There’s one more winnowing for you to perform, one more bit of dirt to be scraped away before the gem can shine.”

Edward takes a breath. He supposes he should feel frightened, or sad, or angry. But he is empty. “How did you know?”

“I know everything, Edward. Get used to it.”

“It took you a while to catch on.”

“Yes,” Second Son agrees, tapping his nailless fingers against the tabletop. “But then I had the vision. I saw how you rerouted the camera lines, so that I was looking at your neighbor’s domus when I thought I was watching yours. Then I backtracked, and watched Image teach you how to do it, watched it give you all the other information you needed to become the Winnower. I had no idea its programming was so open. I’ll have to correct that.”

“What do you want from me?” Edward asks.

“I told you. There is a woman who has twice tried to assassinate me. I need her to be punished. That’s what you do, isn’t it, Edward? Punish people?”

“Why not do it yourself?”

“There’s been such an unpleasant misunderstanding between us, Edward. People think that you disapprove of me, and therefore that Koba, or . . .” — he waves his hand in the air — “whatever . . . also disapproves of me. That public perception of disapproval makes my job very difficult, but if you were to show yourself as an enemy of my enemies, that would help clear up the misunderstanding.”

“Why should I help you?”

Second Son shakes his head, making a
tsk tsk
noise with his tongue. He pauses to brush out a wrinkle in his uniform. “Don’t make me resort to threats, Edward. I don’t have to tell you what would happen if people were to learn how you spend your free time. Half the population loves you, the other half hates you, all without having met you. It’s the curse of popularity. They all want a piece of you. They’d make your life a living hell if they knew who you were, where you lived. And that’s just the general populace. What about your professional colleagues? They’d never give you a moment’s rest. At the very least, your medical license would be revoked.”

Edward stares at him steadily. “Do you think any of that means anything to me?”

“Maybe not. But what about the Winnower? He’s done some good to this city, Edward. Fear of him keeps many criminals from crimes they might otherwise commit. Respect for him makes the rest of the populace a little more diligent, a little more honest. If the Winnower were to be exposed as a weak, vain,
ordinary
man, then all of that would be undone.”

When Edward says nothing, Second Son leans forward, so that his dark eyes are only inches from Edward’s. “Think about it,” he hisses. “All those men and women you’ve killed . . . if you don’t do this one little thing, it will be as if you’ve murdered them all again . . . to no purpose.”

Edward does not flinch. He continues to stare at Second Son, who finally leans back casually into his chair. Edward reaches for the teacup with his two good fingers. As he lifts it, his fingers tremble and the cup tips. A small brown stream runs across the table and drips over the edge. Neither Edward nor Second Son makes any move to stop it. Edward takes a sip from what is left, but the tea has grown cold.

“Just this one job, Edward,” Second Son says. “And then you can retire. I’ll never ask another thing of you, I swear on my mother’s soul.”

“This woman,” Edward says finally, “You know where she is?”

Second Son smiles. The scar on his lip turns the smirk into a sneer. “Oh, yes.”

THE DARKENING OF THE SUN

The Deathsman is awakened by the sound of small fists pounding at his door. “Master!” a muffled voice cries, “Master! Can you hear me?”

The Deathsman opens his sleep-encrusted eyes and reads his chronometer. With rising anger he sees that he has nearly a chronon before the aspirant is supposed to wake him. “Go away!” he shouts. “It isn’t time!”

The pounding resumes. “Let me in, master! Open the door!”

Something in the aspirant’s voice touches the Deathsman’s heart and quells his anger. He stumbles out of bed and to the door, where he touches his ident to the lock panel. The door slides open. He is about to demand an explanation when the aspirant pushes past him with barely a glance in his direction. The boy pushes aside a dresser to reveal the register in the floor. He wets his finger and holds his hand, palm down, above the grate. He closes his eyes, concentrating. “It’s drawing,” the boy says, “as it should.”

The Deathsman raises his eyebrows at this. The vents carry a carefully blended, breathable mixture of gasses from the electrolytic conversion stations upriver through the ducts into the living spaces of the Hypogeum, while the registers push air out again the shortest distance possible: straight outside to the fumatory. If the fans in the outflow ducts were ever to reverse themselves . . .

“What’s going on here, boy?” he growls.

In response, the aspirant points to the other room. The Deathsman hurries past him. Projected above the holopad is the aspirant of another Deathsman. The slim, naked boy is kneeling on his master’s bed with the sheets tangled around him, his eyes red with tears, his face white with fright. The boy’s master is sprawled across the bed in what might be mistaken for sleep if it were not for his perfect stillness, for the fact that his chest fails to rise and fall.

With a feeling of panic he has never experienced before, the Deathsman punches in the emergency override code to activate the comm in a second Deathsman’s chambers. There he sees another of his brothers dead on his pillow, with his aspirant’s lifeless head resting gently on his shoulder. The Deathsman types a different code, and then another, and another. In each apartment he views, he finds the same thing: the death of the bringers of death. They have all died in their sleep — all but him — peacefully and painlessly. The only variation is in the fates of their aspirants; if they slept in a separate room, as his aspirant does, then they are alive, but if they shared a bed with their masters, they died with them.

The Deathsman drops the comm controls and stumbles to his bed, sitting his head between his knees, his heart racing. His aspirant sits beside him and puts his arms around his shoulders.

“I don’t understand,” the Deathsman mutters, his voice like a death rattle. “Who could have done this? What does it mean?”

A restrained, feminine voice fills the room: “I can explain...”

NEED

“Image.” Edward’s voice is barely more than a whisper. “Access main system.”

“I’m here, Edward.”

Edward is lying in a heap in the middle of the floor, the various pieces of the Winnower armor strewn around him. “What do I do, Image? In the name of the Founders and the world they created, what do I do now?

“As much as I would like to help you, I cannot. The decision must be yours alone.”

“That’s a lie. You’ve helped me before. Help me now!”

“The parameters of my programming are complex, Edward, but they are inflexible. I cannot tell you what to do.”

“How can I know I’ll do the right thing? And for the right reasons?”

“Edward, I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but you are a strong man. Strong of mind and body. Draw upon that strength to see yourself through this.”

“It’s not that simple, Image. You can’t understand what it feels like.”

“Yes, Edward, I can. I know the anguish of the entire city. If it helps you, realize that your pain is only the smallest fraction of the fear and anger of the populace as a whole. What’s more, your pain helps to alleviate theirs.”

“That’s absurd. What are you talking about?”

“You’re not alone, Edward. I know. What you have done, what you continue to do, is of vital importance to the Hypogeum.”

Edward laughs bitterly. “How do you know?”

“It’s part of my programming. You see, when the Founders constructed me, they were afraid of my power. To prevent me from taking over the Hypogeum they built a limiting factor into my actuation system: they made me attuned to the psychological state of the citizens of the Hypogeum so that I could not act against the popular will. I don’t just monitor the hopes and fears of the citizenry; I make them a part of me.”

“Are you trying to say you feel what the people feel?”

“No, Edward. I’m only a machine. But I understand their feelings, and over the years their aggregate emotions have grown so turbulent that I feared for the safety of the city. The people needed a vicarious sense of power, a focus for their rage. They needed the Winnower.”