“Do the archives say where the Rats came from?”
“They were first reported in the annals of the Second Pandect. There were only a few of them then, scurrying around the edges of the city. It was believed that they originated in the lower levels. Remember, between the Eternity Riots and the Second Pandect anything below Deck Five was completely ungoverned. There are no records for close to a hundred years. Anything could have happened down there. Imagine a single worker in the fermentation vats, where they culture the microorganisms needed for the processing plants. Due to a chance mutation — not unusual considering the chemical waste that accumulates in the lower levels — his biochemistry is abnormal, allowing the archaea in the vats to take root in his lungs. They don’t bother him too much. He assumes it’s asthma. Even if he was concerned, there’re no doctors available to treat him. He has children, and passes the mutation on to them. The archaea enter their lungs as well. The mutation gets passed to a third generation, and a fourth. As the air gets more polluted, the archaea multiply. The children find it harder and harder to breathe, until one of them notices that it’s actually easier for them to breathe the fumatory. They move out to the periphery of the city. Too late, they realize the poisoned air is destroying their vocal chords and the paucity of oxygen is degrading their mental faculties. Eventually, they finish the slide into savagery.”
Kitt only stares at Orel with an appalled expression on her face.
He shrugs again. “That’s the theory anyway.”
“And look at this,” Bernie interjects, leaning between Kitt and Orel. He runs his fingers along the scars on each of the Rat’s cheeks. “These cuts are unlike the ones on the rest of her body. Their evenness and symmetry indicate they were made intentionally. Perhaps as some sort of ritual.”
“Are you saying this thing is intelligent?”
“Depends on how you define the word. But I think it’s safe to say that she’s part of a real society, one that separated from ours a long time ago. One big enough and complex enough to have evolved its own unique rites and practices.”
No one speaks. They sit for a moment looking at the body.
Finally Orel asks, “That man who went to live with the Rats — how was he equipped?”
“He wasn’t equipped at all,” Kitt says. “He just up and left. Why?”
“We’d like to explore the tunnels.”
“We’d like
what
?” Bernie exclaims.
A smile spreads across Kitt’s face. “My friend,” she says, “if you’d like to do that, I’ll see to it that you’re equipped any damn way you like.”
MAKEUP
Second Son sits motionless in the porcelain chair as his servants apply makeup to his body, his soft flesh rolling beneath their fingers. Nearby, his sister, wordlessly wrapped in her own thoughts, is also being made up. Second Son glances at her smooth, handsome face and the tiny smile on her lips. He looks away quickly, before she has a chance to open her eyes.
Be your father
, he thinks to himself.
Be your father
.
DISCROOM
As the elevator starts to rise, Cadell leans forward and studies his reflection in metal trim of the doors, trying to calm his jittering nerves. “I’m still not sure I should have spent the money for this.”
He rubs the fabric of the sleeve of his new suit between his fingers. The cover-up has clean lines and a fine sheen that shimmers in the subdued lighting of the elevator. Patterned gold bands run around the wrists and collar. Amarantha has dyed his hair dark blue to match the fabric.
“Relax.” Amarantha leans back against the handrail, smiling and serene. Despite her misgivings about Second Son, she loves a party. “You were the one who kept saying what a big occasion this is. If it’s that important, it’s worth a little investment.”
“You don’t think it’s too . . . subdued?”
“Trust me. The Rakehells pretend to be revolutionaries, but it’s all an act. They’re really just young conservatives who like an excuse to get together and party. They’ll love you.”
Amarantha wears a dress of pale orange that brings out the green of her hair. Her shoulder pads curl into crescents, framing her oval face, and her sleeves end in points along the back of her hands, accentuating her long fingers.
Impulsively, she puts an arm around Cadell and squeezes. She kisses his cheek. “I’m very proud of you, you know.”
The doors of the lift open with a pneumatic sigh. They step into the hall. A big man scans their idents. He grunts in approval, and the ornate doors swing open. The sounds of the party wash over them.
The Discroom is vast, fifteen meters high and nearly a hundred wide, encompassing an entire floor of the main bubble of the Chandelier. The glass and chrome room has several levels, so that no matter where they look, something is happening. Above their heads, crystal mobiles twist themselves continuously into new shapes, and somewhere a synthesizer is inventing music.
Guests, all primary or null-class citizens, meander in a riot of colored costumes. Slim, wedge-shaped robots called slipstreamers move among the partiers, floating on a cushion of electrostatic fields. Their long, polythene tails weave intricate patterns that hang, seemingly motionless, in the air, then disappear as the streamers move on. Above the crowd, acrobats fly on wires, silhouetted against the great glass wall with its spectacular view of the Hypogeum. The party has been in progress for several chronons already, allowing people who live in all the different lifeshifts to attend. It will continue long after they are gone.
Cadell lifts two glasses from a passing gyrot, which weaves drunkenly on its single wheel, then spins off to serve the other guests. Cadell takes a sip and passes the second drink to Amarantha. A rare treat: the punch is flavored with that amusing blend of chemicals known as “fruit.”
They move among the crowd, greeting friends and exchanging pleasantries. Cadell speaks little. He smiles to himself as he watches Amarantha mingle. Small talk, which is so difficult for him, is Amarantha’s joy. She acts like she’s an old friend with everyone she meets, quickly finding interests in common with even the dullest people. She charms them with her beauty and easy grace. Even Cadell’s old friends tend to look more at her than at him in a conversation.
A white-haired woman in bright yellow and green walks up to them. Her mandilion, the short cape that marks her as a member of the Prime Medium, is noticeably worn and stained. It is a symbol of prestige, indicating the length of time she has served.
She clicks idents with Cadell, who has to lean forward quickly to avoid spilling his drink on her. “Hello, Madame Mediary,” Cadell says. Unbelievably, he realizes he cannot remember the woman’s name.
“Hello, Mrs. Fries,” Amarantha says, stepping in, “How is Johan?”
Cadell smiles. Saved again.
“Fine, thank you,” the Mediary says, grinning. “And how are you? Your name is Amarantha, am I right?”
“I’m flattered, Madame Mediary.” Amarantha smiles. “You must remember Cadell, as well.”
The Mediary turns back to Cadell. “Oh, yes. You were one of the ghosts who worked on Referendum 1487, right? I liked your wording.”
“Thank you,” Cadell says. As a ghost, his job is to write copy for the referendums, without which no law can be passed in the Hypogeum. It’s painstaking labor. The art of it lies in choosing the precise wording by which a proposal can be rendered inoffensive enough to garner the most votes from the indifferent populace while still having teeth enough to actually be of some use should it be approved. It’s not unusual for as many as twenty ghosts to work on a single referendum.
“You know,” he says, swirling his drink in his hand. “It’s not going to work.”
The Mediary’s eyebrows rise. “What do you mean?”
“Referendum 1487 is only a stopgap. The people will outgrow the new housing in a year or two. Something more radical is needed.”
“If you’re saying you’ve come up with a new way to ask for mandatory sterilization, I’m all ears.”
“No, I was thinking more along the lines of draining the Sunken Neighborhoods.” Cadell speaks slowly and confidently. The alcohol is glowing in his head with the special luminance that comes before actual drunkenness sets in. “There’s more room in them, and it’s dangerous to leave them flooded anyway.”
“It can’t be done. The cost in materials alone is prohibitive.”
“But surely you agree something ought to be done about them.”
“When you’ve been in politics as long as I have, young man, you’ll come to realize that there’s a great difference between what
ought
to be done — even what
has
to be done — and what
can
be done within the system. If you have a proposal to show me, I’ll look it over. In the meantime, I have other things to worry about.” She bows briefly to Amarantha. “A pleasure,” she says and walks away.
Cadell finishes his drink in a single gulp, suddenly overcome with self-pity. “Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Amarantha says. “You can’t be anyone other than yourself.”
“No, she was right. What do I know, after all? I don’t have any real experience.” He looks out the great curved window at the city below. “Next time a Mediary says ‘Hello,’ I should be smart and just confine my conversation to platitudes and empty compliments.”
“Uh huh. Look, your Rakehell buddies are standing over there.”
“Where? Oh, I see them.”
The Rakehells are milling in a pack on the other side of a plasma fountain. The coruscating needles cast a flickering carnelian glow across their lean bodies. Amarantha frowns. “They’re looking this way and talking. But they’re not coming any closer.”
“That’s odd.”
“It’s rude, that’s what it is.” She takes Cadell’s hand. “I’ve always gotten an odd feeling around them, Cadell. I don’t think they’ve ever really accepted you. Not really.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m very popular with them. There wasn’t a single objection to my initiation.”
“I don’t care. I don’t trust them.”
“Okay, okay.” Cadell looks through the fountain at the Rakehells. He should go greet them.
“Just make sure they don’t take advantage of you,” Amarantha says. “Don’t make those eyes at me, listen to what I’m saying. You work too hard for them, and I don’t see them giving you anything in return.”
“Will you lay off? These are my friends you’re talking about.”
Amarantha opens her mouth to argue, then smiles instead. “Sorry. I’ll be good. I’m just worried about you.” She watches Cadell’s face drop. “What’s the matter?”
“I just spotted Second Son. And he’s spotted us.”
“Shit.”
“Here he comes.”
TERMINUS
“Marta, please cancel all my appointments for the next chronon. I’ll be out. I don’t know where I’ll be.”
Edward’s secretary makes a disapproving face and dramatically draws her lightpen across the scheduling panel, scratching out the appointments. She gives the Deathsman a withering look as the door shuts behind them.
“I don’t think your secretary likes me,” the Deathsman says as they get on the elevator.
“Frankly,” Edward says, “you smell.”
“Do I? I was wondering why you insisted we leave the hospital.”
“That, and also I thought it would be best that, as a healer, I not be seen talking to . . . death.”
“I understand. You have a reputation to maintain. Although I don’t think anyone would recognize me out of uniform.”
They attach their respirators and cycle through the airlock. They walk across the bridge connecting the hospital to one of the main thoroughfares.
“You haven’t told me your name,” Edward says.
“We of the Brotherhood do not have names. To have personal identities would be unseemly. As individuals we are insignificant. It is our participation in the larger unity that is our pride.”
“I see.” Below the bridge, a patchwork of rooftops descends at odd angles into darkness. Steam rises from the lowest levels.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me,” the Deathsman says. “I hope you believe me when I say that I’m not a threat to you. I’m not here in my professional capacity.”
“Then why did you come to visit me?”
“Curiosity. Your behavior when last we met intrigued me. My attentions are rarely resisted with such vehemence. Was the man related to you?”
“No. He was just a patient.”
“Were you expecting some sort of miraculous recovery? A sudden, unprecedented reversal of metastasis?”
Edward takes a deep breath. “No. I could have prolonged his life, but not saved it.”
“And you knew this.”
“I knew it.”
“And yet you risked your life to save this stranger. Why?”
“I don’t know.” Edward massages his temple with his fingers. His headaches are getting worse, as if his brain is a door that someone is pounding to get in. “Being a doctor means watching people die,” he says quietly. “You only see people who are sick, and the better doctor you are, the sicker they are when they come to you. You treat them, and you get to know them, and then you watch them waste away. Sometimes there’s something you can do, sometimes there isn’t. Sometimes you hope maybe this time there’s a chance. And then one day they’re gone, and somebody else takes their place.”