Steel Sky (40 page)

Brax moves closer and studies the lock. “Yeah, I can do it.” He pulls a small device from his pocket. “Is anybody looking?”

“Only about a hundred Scrutators.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Brax places the device over the lock. Lights on the device blink and a display panel races through a hundred thousand code combinations in the span of a few heartbeats. The lock clicks. Brax slides the door open and takes a step inside. He immediately recoils, turning his head and covering his nose.

Kitt pushes him into the room and closes the door behind them. The smell that Brax reacted to is familiar, yet foreign. Concentrated urine and excrement are the most obvious components, but there is another scent beneath them, more subtle and disturbing. Moving forward, she tries to ignore it, breathing through her mouth.

Walking around a large chair in the middle of the room, she sees the body. Security Officer Horsen is lying face down a little more than a meter from the chair. His eyes stare blankly to one side. Between him and the chair is a long smear of waste that has leaked through his tights.

Looking into those eyes, Kitt realizes what the hidden scent is. She has heard people talk about “the smell of fear” but until now she has never realized that such a thing actually existed. This man, this entire room, stinks of fear.

She kneels down beside the body and touches her finger to his neck, feeling for a pulse. Suddenly Horsen shudders and begins to breathe quickly. His left hand flails about. It connects with Kitt’s shoulder and grips the fabric of her coverup tightly, but his head still lies flat against the floor, grunting incoherently.

“He’s still alive!” Brax exclaims.

“I thought so,” Kitt says with a grimace. “That’s part of the punishment.”

Using only his left arm, Horsen pulls himself up toward Kitt. The rest of his limbs do not move, and his head still hangs limply from his shoulders. He grunts loudly, his voice wavering and cracking. A tiny spot of drool drips from his mouth.

Kitt turns toward Brax. “Well, just don’t stand there!” she shouts. “Bring him something to drink! Can’t you see he’s badly dehydrated?”

Brax stares horrified at Horsen a moment more, then runs to the kitchenette. He pulls a canister of bloodpop from the shelves and returns with it. Kitt grabs the can from him. She cradles Horsen’s head in one hand and pours the liquid into his mouth with the other. Horsen drinks it greedily, making inarticulate sounds of pleasure. When the can is empty, Kitt sets him down on his back. He stares up at the ceiling, breathing heavily. His skin is pale and wrinkled, like plastic wrap.

“What happened to him?” Brax asks.

“He pissed off a Deathsman,” Kitt replies. “I’ve heard of them doing this, but I’ve never seen it before.”

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t they just kill him?”

“Because to them death is a gift. They take away his eyes and his ears, his arms and his legs, but they leave his life. It’s their way of reminding us how important they are.” She stands and looks down at Horsen. “It looks like he’s been here for about two days. The Deathsman didn’t do a proper job on his arm, I think; that’s how he was able to pull himself out of the chair.”

“What should we do with him?” Brax whispers.

“You can talk as loud as you like. He can’t hear us,” Kitt says. “Pick him up. We’ll take him to the hospital.”

Brax does not move. He looks down at the shriveled clop. “Maybe we should just leave him,” Brax says slowly. “Maybe it would be more humane to just let him die.”

“Forget it.” Kitt turns toward the door. “I came here for gossip, and I’m going to get it. If he can’t tell me a story, then he’ll have to
be
one.”

THE SHADOW HEART

“So are you still talking to him?”

“Oh, yes. This one is special. He requires personal attention.”

The aspirant looks at the decrepit surroundings, determined not to show fear. His master is taking him on one of his walks though the promenades. Occasionally the aspirant can make out the remains of elaborate frescoes on the walls, ghosts of gay colors beneath a century’s accumulation of dust and detritus. Once the main thoroughfares of the city, the promenades have long since been completely enclosed, covered over by the foundations of newer buildings.

“But what about the others?” he asks, keeping an eye out for the gangs that prowl these wide, dark tunnels.

“They disapprove, of course.” The Deathsman walks with a jaunty but unhurried pace. In some way the aspirant does not yet understand, his master takes pleasure in this decayed and minatory environment. “And since I have so blatantly disregarded their wishes, I am sure there will be . . . repercussions.”

“Will they try to kill you?” the aspirant asks.

“No,” the Deathsman replies firmly. “I have broken none of the Laws. And I have brought neither disgrace nor danger to the Brotherhood. I am guilty only of a breach of decorum.”

“I see.” The aspirant is still confused, but he knows his master does not like it when he asks too many questions.

They walk in silence for a while. They pass a shabby-looking man slumped against a wall. Around his neck he wears a sign that says “FAULTY CYBERNETICS. PLEASE GIVE.” As they pass him, a bright bolt of electricity arcs down his robotic arm, making his shoulders jump. The Deathsman pauses, keys a small donation into his ident, and kneels beside the beggar to touch idents with him. The beggar eagerly lifts his arm, but as he looks up into the Deathsman’s eyes he cringes. Though the Deathsman is dressed in civilian clothes, something in his face makes the beggar back away, cursing under his breath.

The Deathsman watches, his expression unreadable. The aspirant waits, silently, until the Deathsman wraps his cloak around his shoulders once more. He tosses his head to indicate it is time to move on.

They walk the dark promenade slowly, stirring little storms of dust behind their feet.

“Master?” the aspirant asks softly.

“Yes?”

The aspirant swallows hard. The dust down here is making his throat dry and itchy. “I have something I feel I should tell you.”

“Then tell me. There should be no secrets between us.”

“When it occurred to me that the others might come for you, I thought about your death. Your own death, I mean. You.”

The Deathsman nods. His long lips curl downward, but his pace does not slacken. “And?”

“I was dismayed by the thought. You are an excellent master. I would miss your tutelage. And I would be saddened by the loss of your companionship.”

“An aspirant who loses his master is put in a very difficult situation, it is true,” the Deathsman agrees, slowing to a halt.

“And yet,” the aspirant says, pressing on, forcing the words out before his fear can silence them, “I must confess that the thought of your termination was not altogether unpleasant. I envisioned the moment of your death. And part of me, somewhere, was content.”

The aspirant bows his head and closes his eyes, preparing for his master to strike him. After a moment, when the blow does not come, he looks up. The Deathsman is watching him. His face is expressionless, as empty as the crumbling walls around them. The Deathsman slowly exhales, and reaches out to stroke his aspirant’s hair.

“That is as it should be,” he whispers.

The aspirant smiles, enjoying the touch of his master’s fingers. He reaches up to hold his master’s arm. Suddenly, he feels the Deathsman’s wiry muscles tighten beneath his sleeve. The Deathsman raises his head and looks around, eyes wide. The aspirant has never seen such a look of fear on his master’s face.

“Get away!” the Deathsman shouts, pushing his aspirant away from him.

“What is it?” the aspirant cries, falling backward into the dirt. “What have I done?”

“Get away from me!” the Deathsman shouts. “Go!” The shadows around him ripple and darken.

The aspirant scrambles to his hands and knees. He hurries away, knowing that whatever is about to occur is not something in which he should interfere. When he reaches the wall, he turns and sees another Deathsman appear, dressed in the robes of the Brotherhood. His master, in his simple civilian clothes, looks small and helpless beside the masked figure.

This is how
they
must feel,
the aspirant thinks. Silver-tipped hands snake out from beneath the new Deathsman’s cloak, dancing in the air only centimeters from his master’s face.

His master moves away from the newcomer, shuffling backward. A second uniformed Deathsman swirls out of the shadows behind him. The master skillfully dodges his outstretched fingers, but the aspirant can see they are only toying with him.

The master scrambles to one side, but a third Deathsman appears in front of him, and a fourth. They circle around the master, who stands crouched, his legs wide apart, looking for a break in their defenses. A fifth, and then a sixth, Deathsman slip out of the darkness, their cloaks floating behind them like smoke.

The aspirant has never before seen so many brothers acting in tandem. They swirl around his master in a silent, graceful dance. The master flinches only a little as their argent fingers dart menacingly at his face. He keeps his gaze on his aspirant, warning him with his eyes to stay back. Suddenly, a Deathsman’s hands shoots forward, striking the master in the forehead. The master’s face twists in agony and he exhales sharply between clenched teeth, but otherwise he does not make a sound. Then the Deathsmen crowd closer, and his face is lost between the dark shapes.

The circle tightens and its rotation accelerates. Their silhouettes flow together, blending into a single silent shape that pulses like a heart as they move in, then withdraw, then strike again. The aspirant watches fearfully for his master’s face, but he can only see intermittent flashes of silver in the blackness. The circle draws still tighter. The Deathsmen, weaving their eerie dance, now crouch as their fingertips jab inward. The master has fallen to the ground.

The Deathsmen slow and stop their revolution. They remain bent over the master for a few moments. Their silver hands flitter in and out of their robes, finishing their arcane ritual. They straighten one at a time. Slowly, still moving with the same fluid grace, they slip away. As silently as they came, they fade into the shadows.

The aspirant runs to his master, who is lying face down in the dust. The aspirant lifts his master’s head, and sees that it is covered with black and yellow bruises. The master spits dust from his mouth and coughs. He rests on his elbows, too weak to stand.

“I did it,” he says. “I didn’t make a sound. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.”

“Are you all right, master?”

The Deathsman struggles to sit up. He falls to one side. His arms and legs wobble as if drained of all strength. The aspirant puts his arms around him, helping him balance. Finally, the master is able to sit. He rolls up his sleeve, wincing. The bruises run all the way up his arm. He touches one and grimaces with pain. “Selective necrosis,” he explains to the aspirant. “My punishment.”

“How bad is it?” the aspirant asks. “Are you ill?”

“It’s only cosmetic.” The Deathsman tries to stand. His leg folds under him, and he falls back into the dirt. “Well, mostly,” he says.

The aspirant helps him to his feet. By leaning on his aspirant, the master is able to walk. Haltingly, they make their way to one of the archways leading to more populated areas. “Oh, master,” the aspirant says. “I was so afraid.”

The master smiles, then grimaces with the pain of taking another step. “That, too,” he whispers, “is as it should be.”

OPTIONS

Orel crawls quickly through the narrow channel, cutting his hands on the rough rock, and grabs Eno Selachian by the shoulders.

“Eno!” he croaks, shaking him, “Eno! Wake up!”

Eno Selachian turns his face away from the voice, reluctant to wake. Orel shakes him. Finally, Eno opens his bloodshot eyes. His hair is matted in greasy locks, and his breath is foul. Orel doesn’t judge; he knows he is no beauty either.

“What do you want?” Eno groans.

“I’ve been talking to the Rats.”

Eno regards him suspiciously. “What do you mean, talking? They don’t talk. You said so yourself.”

“They talk. Without talking. I was watching them feed, and I was struck by evidence of a social hierarchy. The big ones eat first. The small ones have to wait until the big ones are full before they get their meal. But I saw a smaller one try to sneak into the group and get his food before they were finished. A large female pulled him aside. Eno, she
talked
to him.”

“How?”

“
Touch
. They can’t communicate by sound, because the fumatory has destroyed their vocal chords, just like it’s doing to ours. They can’t communicate with visual signing, because it’s too dark. So they use touch. They have a tactile language!”

Orel puts his hands on Eno’s chest. “That’s why they took away our shirts. That’s why they were touching us so much when they first brought us here. They were trying to communicate.” Orel puts the palm of his hand over Eno’s heart. “See? This is the sign for
— You
.” He puts both hands on Eno’s shoulders and gently pushes. “That’s the sign for
— Wait
. See?”