Steel Sky (53 page)

Suddenly, without further warning, Amarantha’s finger tightens on the trigger. The gun fires. The sound is barely more than a cough in this vast space. The shot is wild; too high, and too far to the left. Moving at what feels like a glacial pace, Edward darts forward. With a blow sharp enough that he can feel her wrist bones snap, he knocks the gun from her hand. It flies up and out between the girders.

Amarantha falls backward, trying to stay out of reach of his claws. Edward’s feet slip out beneath him, and he falls against her. The singing in Edward’s ears becomes a scream as they stumble off the strut.

THE VOICE OF DEAD EYES

For a moment the world spins and Amarantha watches helplessly, then the line reaches its limit and the harness digs into her like a kick in the gut, yanking her back to reality. She bounces awkwardly, rocking from side to side and rotating slowly. The man in the Winnower’s armor, Doctor Penn, is gripping her around the knees, wheezing like an asthmatic.

They swing in a long arc, the clasps of the harness groaning beneath their weight, until the rope draws tight against the girder. Momentum keeps them going for a little while, gradually slowing, drawing the rope tighter against the girder, and for a moment they are motionless in midair. Then gravity pulls them back again, following the same path in reverse.

One of the rings on her harness breaks suddenly and she lurches to one side. Doctor Penn slides down her legs a few centimeters. He grips her tighter, the claws of his gauntlets digging painfully into her flesh. She would scream if she could draw enough breath, but the harness is too tight.

The three remaining rings screech in protest. She feels the solder in one give way and the metal begin to bend. The harness was not designed to carry this much weight. If only Dr. Penn and his armor were not pulling her down, if the straps of the harness were not digging so deeply into her armpits and under her ribcage, she might be able to twist around to grab the rope, pull herself to safety.

“Doctor Penn,” she says quietly, “you have to let go.”

He raises his head and glares at her through the dead eyes of his mask. His teeth are clenched tightly, but whether it is in pain or fury she cannot tell. His breathing sounds weak.

“Doctor Penn,” she whispers, afraid that if she speaks any louder the sound will break whatever magic spell is keeping them suspended. “You have to let go.”

He drops his head. If he were not still gripping her so tightly she might think he had fallen unconscious.

The solder in another ring crumbles. Cheap metal groans as it loses its shape. Any moment now the clasps will give way and they will both drop into oblivion. “Doctor Penn,” she whispers, and the fear forces the very last of the air from her lungs. “Please.”

He raises his head again, locking his death’s-head eyes on hers. The mask cannot convey whatever emotion he might want to express, but his teeth unclench and his mouth resigns slowly into smoothness. With his face still turned to hers, he lets go.

The twenty-meter drop to the surface of the Sun takes only a moment. The old, scarred plastic creaks and bows under his weight. He rises to his hands and knees, slipping in the dust that has gathered over the centuries, but makes no other move to save himself. A crack appears beneath him, growing wider as the disintegrating molecules give up their hold on one another. For a moment, the shell holds, and she thinks maybe he has a chance of survival. Then transverse cracks begin to appear. The old plastic groans and shudders. It shatters beneath him and he is falling. Falling into the Hypogeum.

THE PERFECT END TO THE PERFECT DAY

Astrid lies tangled in her sheets, unable to sleep. Insomnia, which has never been a problem for her, has lately become her curse. She looks at the clock, wondering if she should take another sleeping pill, risk the lethargy that will weigh her down in the morning.

She sits up. Regret and an ill-defined feeling of panic cling to her brain like mold to a wall. The knowledge that a crowd of strangers is camped outside her door is only a small part of the problem. She looks around her small apartment. Everything in the room is exactly the way she left it, the way she once liked it. Only one thing has changed: there are thick iron bars across the vent.

She is sliding her legs over the side of the bed, preparing to take another pill and tomorrow be damned, when she hears a pounding at her door.

“Go away!” she shouts. “I told you I can’t help you!”

“I am not one of these . . . vagabonds,” says a voice from beyond the door. “I’m a null-class citizen, and I wish to purchase your services!”

Astrid blinks, trying to calm the itch in her eyes by rubbing them with her knuckles. “You’re lying,” she says. “What would a null-class be doing all the way down here?

“I don’t have time for this,” grumbles the voice. “I’ll pay you a thousand bar to open this door!”

“Now I know you’re lying,” she says, but she rises nonetheless, covering herself with a shawl, and unlocks the door. Before it has completely opened a bald-headed man in fine gray robes pushes his way in. The group of quaternaries standing behind him crowd closer but do not try to follow. They only stand huddled together in the dark, narrow hall and stare reverently at Astrid.

“Please,” says one of them, a boy no older than twelve. “We only wish to talk.”

Astrid’s hand hovers over the doorplate. “You’re wasting your time,” she says. “Go home to your family.”

“I saw you with him,” the boy insists. “I followed you from the concourse.”

His eyes are so wide, so full of trust, that Astrid can barely stand to look at him. “You’ve mistaken me for somebody else.”

“He was protecting you,” says an old man in the back of the crowd. “He has spoken to you.”

“He is our one hope for the future!” shouts a woman with a fire-scarred face.

Astrid presses the doorplate. “Your faith is . . . misplaced,” she says as the door slides shut.

The bald man, who has watched this exchange silently, removes his gloves and tucks them into a bag hanging from his belt. His dark eyes look her up and down. As he smiles, the scar on one side of his mouth stretches until it threatens to split.

“Astrid,” he says, languidly drawing the word out, “what a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“One thousand bar,” she says, pointing at the ident panel by the door. “That’s what you said.”

“Of course. Of course. But first I thought we might . . .”

“One thousand bar, you said. You’d better be able to back it up.”

He glowers down at her, a remarkable achievement considering they are the same height. “Are you questioning my integrity?” he growls.

“Are you giving me a reason to?”

He draws back, as if preparing to physically strike her, then seems to think better of it. A smile coats his face, artificial and heavy, like his cologne. “Certainly not,” he says. Without looking backward, he slaps his ident against the panel. “Help yourself.”

Astrid deftly taps in the amount to be transferred and accepts it. She steps back. Despite herself she smiles to think of all that money in her account.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t understand, my dear, but you are being honored today,” the man says, unbuttoning his collar. “This is the most perfect day of my life. One of my greatest enemies died only this morning, and the other two are dying as we speak. And I have decided to celebrate my victories with you.”

“Ten thousand bar per chronon,” Astrid interjects.

“Ten thou . . .!” the man shouts. Then, “Ah, well, I suppose I set myself up for that, didn’t I?”

Astrid says nothing.

“Very well. Ten thousand. But I pay you
after
we’re finished. And I plan to take my time.”

Astrid shrugs. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good. Now get undressed.”

TERMINUS

The Deathsman is in the Atrium, circling the crowds invisibly, when it happens. Looking up, he sees a tiny pinprick that is a hole in the darkened sector of the Sun. It takes a little while longer to see Edward. He seems to be very small, and to be falling very slowly.

As he grows larger, one of the mad preachers notices him and raises his eyes, stopping his harangue mid-sentence. Other people in the Atrium notice his upward gaze. They turn and scrutinize the Sky curiously. All activity stops.

Someone screams, and it is as if a signal has been given: people run in all directions, pushing for the exits, bumping into one another. The Deathsman only smiles and watches as Edward plummets downward. He suspects that more damage will be done by the panic of the crowd than by the impact.

Edward hits the roof, shattering it instantly in an explosion of double-paned glass. His velocity almost undiminished by the impact, he plunges to the ground. He lands in the center of the plaza at the upriver end of the Atrium, beneath the giant screens where the politicians make their speeches. Bits of broken concrete burst out around him.

The crowd clusters around the exits, torn between fear and curiosity. The Deathsman slips into visibility and crosses the plaza at a swift but measured pace. Those onlookers who have not fled give him wide berth. As he walks, he signals the knackers with his subvocal comm. “Bring a strong gurney,” he tells them. “This one will be heavy.”

Edward lies on his side in a shallow crater of shattered concrete. The Deathsman can hear him breathing weakly. The armor has protected him somewhat from the impact, otherwise he would have died instantly, but one of his legs is twisted at an impossible angle. Blood seeps out from between the plates of his armor.

The Deathsman crouches beside him, his cloak settling slowly around him. The side of the helmet is cracked, and Edward’s face is streaked with blood and concrete dust. The Deathsman can only imagine how broken his body must be inside the armor.

“Hello, Edward,” he says quietly.

Edward’s head rises slightly. “You again,” he mutters, bubbles of dust and mucus forming around the edges of his mouth. “What do I have to do . . . to escape you?”

“Only die. If it’s any consolation, you have my respect, Edward, and what’s much more rare, my pity.”

Edward’s head drops. “Leave me . . . alone,” he says, so quietly that the Deathsman can barely hear him. “Let me . . . die . . . in peace.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option, Edward. Legends are being born even as we speak, and you are at the center of all of them.”

He glances backward and sees that the crowd has begun to edge closer. All fogged respirators and wide eyes, they watch with that unique blankness that comes over witnesses to disaster: one of horror mixed with relief . . . relief that it wasn’t them. The Deathsman leaps to his feet. “Back, you parasites!” he screams. “Back!” He circles Edward’s body, silver fingertips extended. “The first one of you that takes another step forward dies where he stands!”

The people back away, but not as far as the Deathsman would like. The days of his kind have come to an end, and they can sense it.

He settles quickly next to Edward again. “You see, Edward? You see how even these pampered fools are drawn to you? I knew you were a great man, Edward. I knew it from the instant I met you. But I had no idea just how great, not until this morning.”

Edward says nothing, and for a moment the Deathsman thinks he may have passed on, but suddenly he cries out and falls on his back, his spine arching as much as his battered armor will allow. His mouth opens wide, emitting an inhuman, almost subsonic moan, as if his individualized flesh has been flayed off, leaving only the pain and a base reptilian urge to survive.

The Deathsman realizes this will not be a good death.

He leans in. “Forget the pain, Edward,” he whispers fiercely. “It’s meaningless. Transitory. Now is the time when you must speak the words that will sum up your life, your struggles, the lessons you have learned. Give them to me, Edward. Give me your last words.”

But the moan only intensifies, becoming a wail, a labored scream.

The Deathsman leans closer, so that his face is almost touching Edward’s. “Forget the pain,” he says. “Don’t waste this opportunity!”

Edward shakes from side to side, struggling with what is left of his strength. He raises his head, the dark sockets of his mask peering intently at the Deathsman. He gurgles wetly as he tries to gain enough breath to speak. The Deathsman closes his eyes, straining to hear as Edward’s lips form his last words. He coughs them out, giving up his life’s last energy to communicate one final message. “Fuck . . . you,” he rasps.

He collapses back onto the concrete. His body, superhumanly rigid a moment before, seems to shrink within the armor. The Deathsman is engulfed in a wave of nausea and disbelief. “Oh, no,” he whispers, his eyes wide with horror. “Oh, please, no.” It cannot be, that the last words of a man so noble should be so vulgar, so common! “Edward!” he cries, shaking him. “Say something else! Give me something more!”

Edward’s head rolls lifelessly to one side, blood and spittle dripping from his mouth. The Deathsman lifts Edward’s head and stares into the empty eyes. “
You don’t want to do this
,” he hisses. But Edward is dead. His last words have been spoken.