Daylight Runner (3 page)

She struck a glamorous pose, and some of the students smirked.

“But who can tell me this?” she went on. “In the fourth year of its operation, the generators were already
online and feeding the city much of its heat, but most of the works were still not connected. That was the year the Heart Engine failed. Can anybody tell me why?”

There was a hush in the classroom. Few of them had even heard of the event more than two hundred years ago.

“Too much fat in its diet?” Cleo muttered beneath her breath, prompting a chorus of sniggers.

“The construction workers went on strike,” Ms. Kiroa told them, still trying to ignore the aggrieved young upstart in the second row. Cleo was upset, and she was looking to start a fight with her teacher in order to blow off some steam. Ana wasn't going to fall for it. “The workers went on strike, and as a result, the entire city nearly froze to death.”

Most of the rest of the class was about all the systems that the Heart Engine supplied energy to, which was pretty much everything in the city. Any major works that didn't get energy from the generator supplied power to it. Engineering stuff tended to put Cleo to sleep. She was surprised Ms. Kiroa had any enthusiasm for it, but the teacher seemed as entranced by the city's works as some of the guys. But then, rumor had it she was going out with someone from Ventilation. Cleo feigned interest, and managed to make it to the end of the class without yawning too much.

The other guys from the band were waiting for her when she came out after the bell. Flipping her hair over
her shoulders, she leaned back against the corridor wall with her hands on her hips, heaved a sigh, and looked at each of them in turn. She could see no reason to break it to them gently.

“We've been dumped,” she said.

“Why?” Faisal, their bass horn player, asked.

“Internal Climate says our lyrics are inflammatory.”

“What do they mean, ‘inflammatory'?” their treble horn, Amanda, said, frowning. “They think we're a fire hazard?”

“That's inflammable, Am,” Cleo explained patiently.

“Inflammatory means like…we ignite passion. Get a rise out of people.”

“Isn't that what music's supposed to do?”

“Not according to Internal Climate.”

“Idiots.” Ube Lamont, the drummer, shook his head.

“This is all just part of the corporate monopoly of everyday life. Every day it gets harder to draw a free breath into your lungs; this place is being taken over by the money-grabbers who want to stamp their ownership on the world.”

The others stared silently at him.

“You're sounding more and more like a Dark-Day Fatalist all the time,” Cleo told him. “You should lay off the smoke; it's making you morbid.”

“I'm not fatalistic. I just object to being a cog in the machine,” Ube replied, looking defensive.

“We
live
in a machine.” Cleo sighed. “Get used to it.”

“You should be careful how you talk, anyway,” Faisal told him. “You mess with the machine and the Clockworkers'll come for you. I know somebody whose uncle disappeared after he said the wrong thing.”

“That's bullshit,” Ubertino sneered. “The ‘Clockworkers'. A myth started by the men in power, a cynical ploy to keep the masses cowering—”

“What the hell have you been reading lately?” Cleo asked, wincing. “‘Keep the masses cowering'? Jesus, Ube.”

“I just know what I've heard,” Faisal added vehemently.

“We all need to chill out,” Cleo said as she glanced around. They were alone in the corridor.

“Anybody got some stem on them?”

C
OACH
A
SSAGIOLI
—S
AGGS
, to his boys—pressed Sol's nose gently between his palms, causing a spark of pain that made Sol flinch slightly. Around them, the sounds of a busy boxing club filled the air: grunts, thuds, panting breaths, skipping ropes tapping and whirring, feet gliding back and forth across the floor. But Sol could no longer get the smells: no liniment, or warm rubber, worn leather, or fresh sweat. It was difficult enough to draw breath through his nostrils. The gym was well lit, but the equipment was old and overused, like so many things in Ash Harbor. Sol loved it here, his second home, his temple.

“You're lucky.” The coach grunted, nodding to himself. “They just broke the cartilage. Bridge is fine, nose is even straight—they haven't spoiled your good looks.”

Sol sniffed, then put his hand to his swollen nose and wiggled it gingerly. He could feel the two edges of the cartilage rub together.

“No sparring for you for a couple of weeks,” Saggs told him. “Do some work on the bag today, and take it easy.”

Sol tutted. He'd been looking forward to letting off some steam, and the bag just wouldn't do it for him. Gregor had not come home last night, and Sol was starting to get worried. He had phoned the depot, but his father had not shown up for work since the crane accident. Sol was considering reporting him missing. He rarely stayed out two nights in a row, and if those two heavies were after him, Gregor might be in trouble.

“I need a few rounds, Saggs,” he pleaded. “This thing with the crane's been driving me mad. Just a couple of rounds to loosen up, take my mind off it…please?”

Saggs regarded him for a moment and then nodded. “All right, you're in with Nestor. Take it easy.” He turned to the thin-figured, pale boy working on the punching bag. “Nestor! You're in the ring with Wheat! He's got a broken nose, so I just want to see body shots from the pair of you. Touches to the head, nothing to the face. And I want to see you moving those feet, Nestor!”

Once Sol had his head guard on, one of the guys helped him with his gloves. They were Gregor's old gloves—real leather, not like the synth-fiber most of the other guys used. After climbing through the ropes, he
bounced around on the sprung floor shaking his arms out. Nestor was an easy opponent; skinny and tall, he'd taken up training about a year ago because he was being bullied. He was a bit of a dork, but he was all right. He'd never be a fighter, though. By the time he was eighteen, Sol would have the build for real middleweight competition.

Saggs called the start, and the two opponents circled each other, both up on the balls of their feet to change stance constantly, trying not to signal their intentions. Nestor was nervous, defensive, and every time Sol moved, his guard twitched. They traded a few easy shots, Sol dodging Nestor's blows with an easy grace, not even needing his guard. A right hook forced Nestor to cover up, blocking his own view, and Sol followed up with two neat uppercuts to the kidneys. Nestor danced away, but Sol followed. Jabbing into Nestor's guard, he brought his left around in a hook. Nestor covered his head and lashed out in fright.

His glove caught Sol straight in the nose.

Sol bellowed in pain, his face suddenly on fire, and something snapped. He rained a combination of punches in on Nestor's head and body, restraint lost in a blind rage. The lighter boy crumpled under his assault.

“Sol! Break it up!” Saggs shouted.

Sol pounded Nestor's guard out of the way, hitting him hard across the sides of the head, once, twice, three times. He followed his final right hook through with his elbow,
catching Nestor on the temple. The other boy's headgear was the only thing saving him from serious injury. Nestor collapsed to the floor and went limp.

“Sol!” Saggs roared. “Get the hell out of there, now!”

He ducked through the ropes and shoved Sol back to his corner. “You part when I say you part!”

Backing against the post, Sol looked past the coach at his fallen opponent. Breathing hard, he felt the animal glory of beating an enemy, but as the pain in his face faded, a sense of shame descended on him. Nestor was struggling to his feet, his nose and mouth bloodied, one of his eyes starting to swell. Sol started forward to apologize, but Saggs stopped him angrily, and Nestor glared at him and turned away.

“You're out of sparring for three weeks,” Saggs snapped at him. “It was an accident that he tagged you. You should've seen that. Hit the showers and cool off. I don't want to see you back here till Monday.”

“Yes, Coach.” Sol slipped through the ropes and jumped down to the floor of the gym.

After undoing the laces of his gloves with his teeth, he stuck the gloves under his armpits and pulled them off. Then he took off his head guard and threw everything into his bag. There were a few curious glances from some of the others working out in the gym as he headed for the changing rooms.

Sitting on one of the benches, he unwound the wraps
from his hands and dropped them into his bag. Then he stripped and stood in the shower, letting the water pour over him. Looking at his hands, he thought of how his father had shown him as a child how to punch against a pillow. That was how he'd always worked out his aggression: punching a pillow. He leaned against the wall and let the soothing water fall on the back of his swollen neck.

Two of the other guys, Teller and Gant, came into the changing room.

“See the red mist out there, Sol?” Teller called.

“Beware the crazy red mist!” Gant chimed as he scooted from the chilly room into the showers.

Sol looked up into the spray, running his hands over his face, and then stepped out of the shower. He walked past Teller to his bag and started getting dressed.

“Hear you were at that crane wreck,” Teller said in a quieter voice. “What was it like?”

“High,” Sol replied tersely.

“Come on, talk to us, man! Did you see the bodies? What's it like seein' someone die?”

“Tell, get a life, will ya?” Sol rolled his eyes. “You're like a kid—”

“Aw, go on!” Gant urged him as he spat out water.

“Were they in pieces? Did y'see bits of 'em? I hear you
burst
when you fall from that high…like a bag of guts!”

“Sick!” Teller laughed. “Hey, did you guys hear about
Harmon Effram? The big Jew who used to train over at the Fourth Quad gym?”

Sol remembered him, a regular worshipper at the same temple his mother used to go to. A religious type; there weren't many full-on Jews left in the city. Most people in Ash Harbor were a mix of races—with everybody living on top of one another, you couldn't help it.

“What about him?” he asked.

“Big Yid got squashed last week,” Teller informed them. “He was working in the hydroponic gardens over at the fertilizer plant. The balcony above him collapsed, dropped a ten-ton fertilizer tank on him. It was like he was stamped on by a huge foot or something. Like somebody'd painted a huge, wide Harmon all over the floor.”

Sol felt mildly ill.

“Kind of like what you did to Nestor, eh, Sol?” Gant chuckled.

“That was just stupid,” Sol muttered.

“Ah, nobody likes the little weed, anyway.” Gant wrinkled his nose. “Maybe he'll get the message now.”

The door of the changing room was opening as he said it, and there stood Nestor, bag in hand. They lapsed into silence, but he was already turning around and heading out of the door.

“Nice one, Gant.” Teller shook his head. “What did ya have to say that for?”

“It's the truth.” Gant shrugged.

Sol cursed to himself, quickly lacing up his sneakers. Gregor was always checking in with Saggs to see how his son was doing. If Nestor quit training because of the beating Sol had given him, there'd be hell to pay. And Sol was feeling guilty enough already. He grabbed his bag and hurried into the gym. Glancing around, he strode to the far door and stepped out into the alley. Nestor was nowhere to be seen. Shifting his bag onto his shoulder, Sol pulled up his hood, jammed his hands in his pockets, and started off home.

 

By the time Sol got back to the apartment, it was after ten. He walked in to find the place in darkness, and reached for the living room light switch. Nothing happened. Another blackout. Clicking his tongue, he found the small methane lamp in the cupboard behind the front door, lit it, and walked through the dim apartment to his room.

The blackouts seemed to occur much more frequently than they had when he was a child, but it was hard to tell. Everything seemed better back then. The place was too quiet; he needed some noise. They had a little rechargeable radio, and he switched it on, listening to the news as he made a hot cup of spirulina soup. He hadn't taken his supplements that day, but he'd do it later. The diet in Ash Harbor left a lot to be desired. He spooned the powder into a mug, lit the small gas stove that they now kept for these occasions, and put some water on to boil. It heated noisily
as he listened to the headlines. There had been a murder, a man from the Fourth Quadrant. A daylighter: one of the men who worked to clear the dome's surface of ice and snow.

Sol's father was a daylighter. They lived in the Third Quad, but…He leaned over the radio, listening intently. The murdered man had already been identified: his name was Tommy Hyung. Sol didn't recognize the name, but at least it wasn't his father's. Even so, the news left him feeling uneasy.

The water on the stove came to the boil, and he took the steaming mug to the window. The apartment was cold, and they had used up their heating quota for the month, but he needed the air.

A few of the windows around him were weakly illuminated with light from the same kind of gas lamp that he was using. The city beyond was always moving, keeping them alive. Tightly packed buildings—some housing branches of the Machine itself—everything linked by ducts, cables, pipes, and driveshafts, all entwined around the multilevel roads used by pedestrians, cyclists, and mopeds more than cars these days. Private cars were becoming a thing of the past, having become too expensive for most people to maintain. Spare parts were at a premium, as was the electricity to power the vehicles themselves—most motor vehicles were many years old, and had a cobbled-together look about them. A few commercial trucks and vans passed from time to time.

The lights of the apartment block would be out until morning now. He could see that the other buildings on the grid were dark, and even the lights on the tramlines had gone off. He closed the window and went into the kitchenette to rinse out the mug and found the water had been cut off too. The tap released a last spurt and then nothing. Swearing under his breath, he checked the hot water, but it was gone as well. The people at Water First had sworn that all the problems had been fixed. This was the fourth time in a month, and the bills were going up all the time. There were numerous underground streams running into Ash Harbor, and they were surrounded by the ocean that lay under the pack ice. It was farcical that they couldn't maintain a water supply. The water company could expect a belligerent phone call from Gregor when he came home. If he came home. Sol shivered, feeling the chill all of a sudden, overcome with weariness. He was too tired to do anything else but go to bed. Promising himself he'd get back up if he heard Gregor came in, Sol made for his bed, and moments after undressing, he was asleep under the covers.