Steel Sky (33 page)

But none of these people have been near Horsen for days, and none will be coming by today. Nobody wants to be seen with the guy who shot the Deathsman.

“Fuck you all,” he mutters, laying the gun down on the floor. “Cowards.”

He tried to return to work, but everyone turned their heads. They wouldn’t let him come within five meters of them. They all fled like he had the plague. His boss wouldn’t give him any more assignments, told him to just go home.
And wait.
He actually said that, the bastard.

No one understands that this was not his fault. From the very beginning, none of this has been his fault.

Horsen snatches up the gun again and aims. Door! He swings the gun around, weaving drunkenly in the chair. Vent! Service hatch! He has all the possible entrances covered, and he can wait as long as they can.

They.
“Corpse-loving freaks,” he mutters. With their stupid death rituals and their silly black masks. Everyone’s afraid of them. But not Horsen. No, they don’t scare him. Not a bit. Not the only man to face the Winnower and live.

He imagines a Deathsman in the middle of the room. He aims at it. Just for the hell of it, he decides to pull the trigger, see the flash and hear the sizzle. Nothing happens. He sits frozen for a moment, staring at his hand, at the finger that refuses to move.
Shit,
he thinks. He realizes he can’t feel his fingers, can’t feel the gun. His arm goes numb and drops to his side. Slowly, without his volition, his fingers unclench, and the gun tumbles to the floor. He tries to lift his other arm, but it has gone numb, too.

There is a darkness in the corner of his eye. He turns his head, and he sees it, a black phantom squeezing into reality. Horsen tries to stand and flee, but the Deathsman moves faster. He sweeps around Horsen, touching each of Horsen’s legs with quick, neat precision. Horsen collapses back into the chair, twitching violently as his nerves spasm, then go dead. He tries to lean forward, but the silver fingertips push him back. He looks down at the Deathsman’s hand, and at his own body, which has suddenly become alien to him. He can no longer feel his lungs breathing or his heart beating, though he can see his chest rise and fall, and he can feel his pulse pounding in his temples.

The Deathsman steps back and pauses for a moment to let Horsen assess the situation. Horsen looks wildly around, then opens his mouth to scream for help, but the Deathsman’s hand darts forward, touching an index finger to Horsen’s lips. The scream dies in his throat. His mouth hangs open, and he feels drool begin to drip down his chin. The Deathsman walks around the chair and gently touches Horsen’s throat at the larynx. Horsen’s head wobbles and falls back against the chair. He stares up at the ceiling, struggling inwardly for some control of his body, but he can feel nothing. The Deathsman limps around him, a menacing black shape sliding across the periphery of his vision.

He touches Horsen’s ears next. They ring for a while, then everything goes silent. He steps back again, regarding Horsen carefully, as if making sure that he has done the job right, that he hasn’t missed anything. Horsen watches from the corner of his eyes, tears running down the side of his face. The Deathsman nods, satisfied. He touches Horsen’s nose almost playfully, just to be thorough.

The eyes come last.

ESCAPE

“I’m going to put the mask on now. Don’t be afraid.”

As the helmet locks into place, Edward feels the now-familiar sensation of power and anonymity. It flows through him as if he actually is possessed by the ancient avenging spirit, as if he truly has become the Winnower. He cannot resist glancing at himself in the mirror.

“I’m not afraid,” Astrid says, moving closer. She runs her hands across the breastplate, which is cast in the shape of a muscular chest. It’s a poor design, really, because it weakens the structural integrity of the metal.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

She nods. “You know, you sound different with it on.”

“I know.” He slips his arms into the hole and pulls himself through. “I’ve got to go in a bit before I can turn around,” he shouts back to her. “Then I’ll come back to help you get in.”

He shimmies through the narrow duct until he reaches a junction large enough for him to reverse himself. By the time he returns to the opening, she has already worked her way into the duct.

“It’s dark in here,” she says.

“I’ll guide you.” He takes her hand — his metal claw almost engulfing it — and works his way backward through the duct.

“Oh,” she says.

“What’s the matter?”

“The pain. It’s starting.”

“Ignore it,” Edward says. “It’ll go away.”

He continues to pull her forward, but she moves more slowly now. Her breath is quick and shallow. She grips his hand in spasms of pain. “It’s getting worse.”

“It’s psychosomatic,” he insists. “There’s no such thing as a ‘biofrequency’. It’s just a story he told you to keep you in line. Keep moving.”

“I can’t! I’m on fire!”

“You’re not. You’re fine.” He pulls her into the junction with the larger duct. There is enough room here for him to kneel and put his arm around her. He cannot see her in the darkness, but he can feel her shaking. When he touches her face he can feel that it is slick with sweat.

“I’ve got to go back,” she moans. “It’s ripping me apart!”

He wraps his arm around her chest, restraining her. “It’s all in your head. Just relax, and it’ll go away.”

“Let go of me!” she screams. “How could you know what it feels like?” She writhes in his grasp, trying to escape.

“Keep it down,” he whispers fiercely. “Do you want to tell everyone where we are? Do you want to get us both killed?”

“I don’t care! I’ve got to go back!”

“Quiet! I can’t go back to that room, and neither can you!”

“Let me go! Let me go!” Despite his greater bulk, she has nearly succeeded in dragging him back into the smaller duct.

“Quiet!” He wraps one hand around her face, smothering her mouth and nose with steel. Still she scrambles to return to her room, her fingernails scratching against the walls of the duct.

He pulls her back, her entire body wrapped in the crook of his arm. Her face is turned up toward his, her eyes wide. Now she is struggling not to escape, but simply to breathe. She whips her head back and forth, trying to break free of his grasp. He squeezes tighter, until she cannot move her head at all.

She tries to strike him in the face with her fists, but she cannot reach around his arm. Her struggles grow weaker. Her muffled screams become pitiful mewls, smothered by steel. Her body twists in occasional weak spasms, which come further and further apart.

When she is utterly still, he releases her. She falls limply into his arms.

INTERSECTION

Two of the Rakehells have decided to wrestle. They are stripped to the waist, bodies glistening in the light of the surrounding helmets. The others shout and cheer as one wrestler throws the other to the ground.

Orel sits in a corner, using his sonar helmet for a seat. Shadows of the wrestlers roll and bounce around him. He has ceased pretending to be a guide, and the Rakehells have stopped pretending they are interested in seeing a Rat. This is just another vacation for them, a chance to blow off steam.

And yet, they are clearly deep within the Rats’ domain. This cavern is the intersection of four or five different tunnels. The floor is worn smooth by the traffic of many feet. Even the walls betray a line of smoothness where a Rat’s fingers would guide him through the darkness. Orel has found a few strands of hair on the ground, and an occasional spot of blood where a Rat must have stumbled and hurt itself, but other than this, the tunnels are clean and deserted. Orel had expected to find droppings. Perhaps the Rats have some understanding of sanitation.

The Rakehells are tiring of their games. Orel can see that they will want to move on soon. He dusts off his helmet and puts it back on his head. As he is tightening the strap, he sees movement in the green and black field. “Hey, everybody,” he announces. “I think I see something!”

The Rakehells do not seem to have heard him. The sound of their scuffling continues. He expands his range to encompass the nearby tunnels. He rotates in place, trying to orient himself and ascertain which direction the movement is coming from. He hopes he can pinpoint it before the noise the Rakehells are making scares it off.

With a start, he realizes there is second blip on the screen. There is now movement to the south as well as to the north. As he suspected, this cavern is an intersection for a great deal of Rat traffic. “Quiet, you guys,” he says. “We’re in luck.”

Suddenly the blip to the north ripples and splits into two, then three . . .
four
blips. It was a group, not a single individual. The blip to the south also begins to divide.

“Guys . . . guys . . .” Orel feels blindly around him for one of the Rakehells, but no one is within reach. The sound of their laughter continues unabated.

More blips appear, converging from all directions. The blips that Orel saw first are waiting in place, pulsing in anticipation. The blips on the sides ripple and split into smaller forms, like multiplying bacteria filling the viewing area of a microscope.

“Guys!” Orel’s voice breaks. “Everybody, listen to me!”

The fear in his voice finally catches their attention. One of them asks what is wrong, but Orel’s attention is all on the sonar screen, which is still filling up with pale green dots. They form a tight circle around the small group of Rakehells.

“Koba . . . they’re everywhere. Everywhere,” Orel whispers. The blips have stopped moving now, but Orel can feel them all around. The pressure and heat of the cavern have risen from their overwhelming numbers, just around the corners, just out of sight.

“What is it?” Thraso asks. “What’s wrong?”

Orel hears a sharp squeal, so high-pitched that it is almost out of the range of human hearing. The blips begin to move inward, pouring through the tunnels, and Orel can hear their raspy breathing and the slap of bare feet on the cold, stone floor.

REGRETS

Cadell bounds up the steps to the Courthouse three at a time. The guards at the door eye him dubiously and take their time clearing him for entry. Looking at his reflection in the polished stone walls, Cadell can see why. His eyes are red and his long hair is disheveled. His coverup is soiled with sweat.

Finally he is cleared. He enters the building and runs down the curving hallways. Amarantha is sitting just where he’d left her outside the court, her hands in her lap, her chin against her chest so that her hair covers her face. He sits down next to her and puts his hand on her shoulder. “Sorry I took so long,” he says between gasping breaths. “Any news on when they’re going to call you?”

She lifts her head, glaring at him furiously. She swings her fist at him, a clumsy, straight-armed sweep that nonetheless catches him flat in face because it is so unexpected. Cadell shouts in pain, and cups his nose with his hands.

“Where the hell
were
you?” she demands. “What took you so long?”

For a moment he cannot speak, he is so shocked. “I . . . I got here as fast as I could,” he says finally. “I’m sorry.”

“As fast as you could? I came out of that awful court, and you weren’t there! Second Son was saying the most awful things about me. I wanted so badly to see you. Where were you, Cadell? What happened?”

“The send-off took longer than I thought, and the transport got stuck coming back. And then I got stopped at one of the checkpoints. I’m sorry, Amarantha. I couldn’t help it.”

She stands up, rubbing her temples with her fingers. “Koba’s teeth, Cadell. I need more than that from you.”

“I know,” he says, jumping up and putting his arms gently around her. For a moment she resists, then she sighs deeply, resting her head against his chest and wrapping her arms around him tightly. “I missed you, Cadell. I wanted you there so much.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, shamed by the uselessness of the words. He cannot believe his own stupidity. Twice now he has been elsewhere when she needed him. What will it take before he learns? “I’ll never leave you, Amarantha. I’ll never leave you alone again; I swear it.”