Steel Sky (19 page)

As the years passed, his mother receded. He saw her only a few times a year, a practice that allowed him to watch her age as if in time-lapse. Her name in his comm file became like a classic novel on his shelf — fondly recalled but rarely returned to.

When she finally became sick, it was a shock to Edward. He realized that he had honestly thought she might live forever. When he went to visit her, he was surprised at how old she looked. The character lines around her eyes and mouth had grown, become wrinkles. Her skin had shrunk to the bone and lost its color.
You see?
her face seemed to say.
This happened because you didn’t appreciate me.

Edward examined her. A large neoplasm was well established in her lung, with smaller ones beginning to take root. There was also evidence of metastasis. All those candles, it seemed, had finally taken their toll. Edward defied medical standards, and the advice of friends, by treating her himself. He pulled in the best equipment and the most knowledgeable experts the Hypogeum had to offer, but already the cancer was too far advanced. The malignant cells spread blindly and vigorously, eating his mother from within.

She insisted no one be told the nature of her illness. Over the years she had expounded the theory that cancer was a psychogenic disease caused by erroneous or evasive “psycho-epistemology.” In her mind, her own sickness was a shameful indictment either of her philosophy or her self.

Edward arranged for the operation to be performed as quickly as possible. Before the arduous procedure was over, the surgeon had been forced to remove one lobe of the left lung, the adjacent lymph nodes, and a rib. Still, the cancer had not been eliminated. His mother awoke in incredible pain that wore down her proud stoicism. Every time Edward came by to visit, she complained about the incompetence of the staff. She accused the nurses of spying on her, of stealing from her, and of other more obscure crimes that Edward could not quite understand. He promised her he would find someone better.

Chemotherapy should have been the next step, but the cancer was spreading too quickly. Edward decided to proceed immediately to germ therapy, a risky proposition at the best of times. Biopsy samples of her tumors were fed to a flow cytometry assayer, which broke down their DNA and assembled a customized immunocytokine, a sort of super-antibody that would stimulate her immune system to seek out and destroy the cancerous cells. The problem lay in how much knowledge had been lost since the machine was built. Edward had no way to double-check the protein fusion, or to accurately predict what its effects might be.

The immunocytokines were injected into his mother’s body. At first the results looked promising. CT scans showed noticeable shrinkage of the tumors. A histamine reaction caused inflammation of her extremities, a common side effect of the treatment, but this was alleviated with neopromethazine. For a little while, Edward allowed himself to hope. Then the cytokines mutated. Her antibodies began to attack her cells indiscriminately, multiplying by the trillions. White pustules developed on her lips and eyelids. She began to bleed from her nose, mouth and vagina. Worst of all, the histamine reaction accelerated, causing her body to swell like a sausage. The swelling closed off her windpipe so that it was impossible for her to breathe unaided. Megadoses of diuretics and targeted immune suppressants were able to reverse the symptoms and eventually eradi-cate the engineered antibodies from her body, but her organs had been dangerously weakened.

She looked as if she had aged thirty years in a matter of days. No further treatment was possible; all Edward could do was try to ease her suffering as the cancer began to spread again. He took her out of the hospital and hired a private nurse to look after her at home.

One day after work, he came to talk to her. Her bed had been moved to face the window. The Sun reflected off the polished facade of a nearby building, throwing a blinding nimbus around her. Her hooded eyes watched him as he walked around the bed. She was propped up by half a dozen pillows, her skeletal hands resting on a book in her lap. It was a very old book, one of the kinds that couldn’t read itself. The title, Edward saw, was
Atrocities of the Time Riots
.

She caught the direction of his gaze. “I am studying,” she explained, her voice a weak rasp. “I am researching into the depths of human depravity.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Until recently I was quite blind to the extent of the darkness in men’s psyches. I had no idea how cruel people could be. I find some comfort in comparing my suffering to that of others.”

Edward nodded unhappily. She had once told him that nothing could be learned from the study of history.
Why study old mistakes?
she had asked.
Better to go out and make new ones.
Now she was reduced to dipping into the gossip of antiquity.

He sat carefully on the edge of the bed. “Is the nurse attending to you properly?” he asked.

“For the most part. He’s incompetent, of course, but that’s only to be expected. No, he and the other strangers you’ve hired to be my new friends are treating me just fine. It’s my old friends who disappoint me. I’m not even dead yet, and already they’ve forgotten me.”

“Now, mother, you know they come as often as they can. You don’t make it easy for them, the way you criticize them every time they come by.”

“It’s not criticism, it’s analysis. Really, Edward, they have so many errors in their thinking, so many unresolved issues that need to be addressed. I need to make sure they’re all on the right track before I die. They should be grateful I give so much thought to their problems.”

“Maybe you should let them live their own lives.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Did you bring any more medication?”

Edward pulled a small bottle from his pocket. “Are you sure you need it?”

“Give it to me.” Impatiently, she pushed the IV drip closer, sending the bag swaying like a pendulum. With a tiny syringe, Edward drew the umber fluid from the bottle. He had never been able to refuse her.

“When I first was told I was sick, I thought it might be good for me to experience the pain,” his mother said. “I thought the pain might teach me something about life, or perhaps
cleanse
me in some way. But pain doesn’t teach you anything, Edward. It doesn’t make you grow. It doesn’t have a point or a purpose. It just hurts.”

Edward stuck the needle into the IV bag and slowly depressed the plunger. His mother leaned forward, thin muscles tight with tension, and watched the fractal patterns as the two fluids intertwined. She fiddled with the heparin lock in the back of her hand, making sure it was in the best position. The dark fluid trickled down the tube. Neither of them spoke.

Finally the drug entered her veins, and his mother relaxed. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the pillows. The tendons of her neck stood out from her pale throat, and her eyes disappeared into the creases of her smile. With the sunlight suffused all around her, she looked like a hedonistic saint from some odd, forgotten cult.

Edward adjusted the drip so the drug would not flow too quickly. He straightened her pillows. She seemed oblivious to him. He wondered if he should leave.

His mother’s smile sagged, and water gathered in her eyelashes. A heavy tear rolled down the creases in her face. “I’m afraid,” she whispered, her face turned upward, her eyes still closed. “The drugs erase the pain, but they can’t take away the fear. I don’t want to die, Edward. My life has been very full. Full of adventure. Full of joy.”

“I know.”

“And now it all comes to an end. How long do you think I have?”

“There’s no way to say for sure. You could last for a very long time.”

Her eyes remained closed, but her mouth curled downward in distaste. “Don’t talk tripe, Edward!” she snapped. “I can feel the cancers growing inside my body. I have a few days more. Maybe as little as a single day. Isn’t that right?”

Edward shuffled his feet. “I don’t know.”

Her eyes snapped open. “Say it!”

Edward opened his mouth to speak. She was right. The evidence was incontrovertible, but he could not speak it aloud. Uttering the words was too much like making it happen.

She sighed. “All right. Have it your way.” She sunk back into the pillows. “It’s important to be honest, Edward. A man cannot be psychologically healthy unless he is honest with himself. Even when —
especially
when — it is the most painful.”

Edward studied her face. The tear had dried, leaving a salty track across her cheek. He sat on the edge of the bed again and leaned forward to put his arms around her, but at the last moment pulled back. He could not touch her. Even at this critical moment he felt something around her, an almost physical force keeping him away.

“I hate them all, you know,” she said.

Edward looked up. “What?”

“My friends.” His mother was looking out the window, her eyes blurry from the drugs. “The nurse. Anyone who walks in the room. Even you. I hate you all.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re alive, while I’m already dead. I hate you for it. The hatred fills up inside me so high it makes me dizzy.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve had so much in my life, but it’s still not enough. I want more. I want forever. The
wanting
. You couldn’t understand. These living people come into the room, and I look at them, and it makes me sick. They have enough energy to walk and eat and laugh, and they can take a piss without needing to first call a nurse. They’re so full of life that they can waste it arguing about what to have for dinner, or what’s the shortest route to the Atrium. I look at them and I think,
My God, if I had even half of what you have, I would appreciate it so much more; I would do so much more with my time!
I look at them and the hate and envy whirl around my head until I can’t see straight. That’s what it’s like. That’s what it feels like to be dying.”

Edward stood and moved away, feeling the negative polarity around her stronger than ever, threatening to tear the room apart. He could see that what she said was true. Hate was the engine that kept her going, even while her body was falling to pieces. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be sorry,” she whispered fiercely. “
Do
something, Edward! Do something good and meaningful with your life. Change the world. Don’t waste your days the way I wasted mine.”

“Wasted them? Mother, you can’t mean that. You’ve done more with your life than anyone I know. You’ve lived ten lifetimes.”

“It’s all nothing.” She spit out the last word like poison. “I made a few friends. I had a few good ideas. I made a few witty comments that people will repeat at parties for a little while. And then they’ll forget.”

She leaned forward, grasping his hand in hers. He was amazed at the strength in those cold fingers. “Don’t let it happen to you, Edward,” she said. “Do something with your life. Do it soon, before it’s too late.”

Later, at home, Edward sat up in bed, remembering something he’d forgotten to tell his mother, something she’d forgotten to tell him. He decided it could wait until morning. But by then, she was already dead.

Kobaron is never bad,
The best ten days you ever had.
Limonteron’s the time to roam;
Kofferon, you stay at home.
Braderon, you’ll find a friend;
Calderon, your friendships end.
In Filmoron your health is good;
Brattaineron’s ten days of blood,
Unless those days begin a year,
Then you will have naught to fear.

Decamerology Poem (short version)

FATHER OF THE BRIDE AND GROOM

Second Son and First Daughter are married in a small ceremony on the fifth day of Kobaron, the luckiest day of the year. The dais has been constructed to disguise the fact that the bride is several centimeters taller than the groom. Second Son wears a single large fire opal over his heart. Dancer’s hair and waist are strung with chrysoberyl. Both are dressed in black on black. Neither smiles. They watch each other intently, eyes narrow, ignoring the quiet group of guests. As he performs the ceremony, Orcus squeezes their hands together so tightly it feels to the couple as if he is trying to fuse their hands together into a single flesh.