A WINDOW TO THE SUN
Cadell stands by the window, looking out at the large complex that casts its shadow over his own building. The complex is tall and sleek, the latest in materials and design, with iridescent panes tilted to catch the light of the Sun. Cadell would like to live in a complex like that. In the Hypogeum, a man’s importance can be quickly judged by whether or not he has a window, and if so by what kind of view it offers. Cadell was born in a room whose window had a view of the Sun, and he has promised Amarantha that they will live in such a room again. Now that he’s been promoted, he can apply to move up. After that, it’s only a matter of waiting for people above him to die.
Shifting focus, Cadell notices his reflection in the dark glass. He studies the lines beneath his eyes, the hollows under his cheekbones. It still surprises him to look in a mirror and see an adult man looking back at him.
He hears Amarantha stir. Turning, he sees her roll over, fitfully pulling the tangled sheets with her. She lifts her head a fraction, as if deciding whether straightening the sheets is worth the trouble of waking up. Apparently deciding not, she lowers her head and resumes the shallow breathing of sleep.
Amarantha is the reason Cadell works for the government. There had been a time when Cadell swore he would never become a bureaucrat like his father. When he was younger, he and some friends had defied the law by traveling deep into the city to watch the performance of a small troupe of actors. Cadell had been so moved that he later secretly returned to talk with, and eventually join, the members of the troupe.
For several decamera, he lived a double life, sneaking down to the theatre in his spare time, learning new parts and improving his skills. He might have been safe if he had left home entirely and joined the other actors in their dark hideaways, but was unwilling to give up his privileges as a primary.
Eventually, of course, he was caught. He was offered a choice: betray the other members of his troupe or suffer execration. Execration was a process in which low-energy microwaves were beamed at the portions of the brain that register emotional pain, especially despair. It was a simple, cost-effective, horrific punishment. Cadell had endured a mere fifty minichrons, and still he would rather have been tortured with hot irons. But he never betrayed his comrades, and when it was over he had quickly gone back to acting with them; his love for his art was that great. It was only when he met Amarantha that he finally gave it up. She never asked him to quit, despite the danger, but his desire to protect her, to be able to take care of her the way she deserved, had inspired him to do what fear of pain and death could not.
He adjusts the sheets to cover her, then slips into bed beside her. He snuggles in close and touches the soft, almost invisible hairs between her shoulder blades. Amarantha, still half asleep, wriggles her shoulders and makes a low noise. Encouraged, Cadell slides one hand around her ribs and kisses the back of her neck.
With a start, Amarantha opens her eyes. She shakes herself free of his embrace and rolls away, jumping out of bed. The intensity of her movements indicates that her sleep was shallow and troubled. She goes to the closet and pulls out a robe.
“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
There is a sullen undertone in his voice, and she catches it. “You can understand, can’t you?” she asks, wrapping the robe around herself. “You can understand why I might not want to be touched?”
“Of course,” he says, abashed. “It’s just that, well, you seemed in a better mood lately. I thought you were getting over it.”
“I’m getting past it. There’s a difference.”
“I understand.”
She plays with the sash of the robe. “I’m going to sue him, I think. Make him pay for what he did. I want to see him execrated.”
Cadell feels a chill in the pit of his stomach. “Sweetheart, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“You think I should just let him get away with it?”
“No, of course not. I understand you’re angry. But you could get yourself into a lot of trouble going after a man that powerful. He could get you demoted to a lower class. He could get you fired. He could get
me
fired. We have a lot of things we take for granted that could be taken away if we make him or his friends angry.”
“So you
do
think I should let him get away with it.”
“No. But for Koba’s sake, the man is an Orcus.”
“Then what do you suggest? Hmm? What else can I do to make him think twice before he terrorizes some innocent woman again?”
Cadell opens his mouth to speak. Ideas flash in his head, but each is crazier and more dangerous than any idea of hers.
“You can’t think of anything, can you? You think I should just forget about it, let him take advantage of me the way the Rakehells take advantage of you. You probably don’t even think he did anything wrong.”
“That’s not true. It makes me sick to think about what he did.”
She stands with her hands on her hips, watching him. “It
is
true,” she says. “I can tell. You really think what he did wasn’t that bad.” “Of course I do! It’s awful. I just thank Koba he didn’t seriously hurt you.”
The moment they leave his lips, Cadell realizes the words are a mistake. He watches her, expecting a tantrum, a flash of anger, but Amarantha only looks at him for a moment. Her eyes are rimmed with darkness from lack of sleep, her hair a disheveled green frame around her face.
“You think he didn’t hurt me?”
She begins to cry. It frightens Cadell a little. Amarantha is not a woman who cries easily, but now tears are streaming down her face, and her shoulders buck with her sobbing. He moves to stand beside her and tries to put a hand on her shoulders. She flinches away. “Don’t touch me!” she shouts.
“Amarantha, I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” she says, wiping her face.
“If you want to sue, I’ll help you. I’ll stand behind you whatever you decide. I’m just saying you should think about it. You might not win.” She begins pulling her clothes from the closet. “I’ll win,” she says. “I’ll tell my story, and he’ll tell his, and who do you think the veniremen will believe?”
“But you don’t have any evidence. He lured you into a place with no surveillance. You don’t have a tape to back you up.”
“I have a witness.”
“A witness?”
“The Winnower.”
Cadell does not know what to say. He always feels like he is one step behind her. “The Winnower?” he repeats dumbly.
“Don’t you see?” she says. “He’s the Dark Spirit of the Stone.
I’ve got God on my side
.”
REUNION
Edward Penn watches the amniocentesis figures as they appear on the screen. Faith Lessup, sitting on the examining bed, looks over his shoulder anxiously. Her left eye is half lidded under the weight of dark red swelling.
“Well, Doctor?” she asks.
“Normal,” he says. “All the figures are well within the normal ranges.”
“Oh, good.”
She sees that you’re worried
, Edward thinks.
You ought to be more careful.
He straightens his back and puts on his best professional face.
“Let’s see if we can get an ultrasound,” he says. She lies back on the bed. He begins sticking the transducers on her belly, which is very full. She is not due for another two decamera, but she could give birth any day now.
“How is your husband?” he asks. “I recall that you and he were having some difficulties. Romantic difficulties.”
“It was getting better, and then, well . . .” She indicates the stye, being careful not to touch it. “He says I look revolting.”
“Mmm.” Edwards nods his head sympathetically. “You know, I could drain that, but I’d rather not risk infection. It’s likely to disappear after the child is born, when your hormone levels return to normal.” “I don’t know that removing it would change his attitude anyway. He’s so difficult. He can be so sweet when he’s in a good mood, but he turns sour at the first sign of trouble.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Tell me, Doctor, why are men so shallow and stubborn?”
Edward puts the last transducer into place, gently pressing it to her taut skin. “It’s caused by a small gland located directly behind the hypothalamus,” he says. “It can be surgically removed if your husband’s behavior is bothering you.”
“Really?”
The edges of Edward’s mouth turn up. “I’m sorry, that was just a joke. A poor one.”
“Oh.”
Edward turns on the machine. A swirl of silent static forms above the pad. It resolves itself slowly into the shape of a child. The image is clearer this time, though still only three-quarters resolved. This time the child’s face is pointing upward. Edward’s chest constricts with fear as he sees what he was afraid he saw before. Deformed children are not unusual in the Hypogeum — most do not survive to birth, and Deathsmen take care of the rest — but this is different. The child has no eyes, only dark hollows of wrinkled tissue. And yet the child is not deformed. It is fat and healthy. The fingers, like the wide slash of a mouth, are too long. Edward has heard from his colleagues that this condition, once almost unknown, has become more prevalent of late. It is as if a new species is evolving, better adapted to the dark limitations of the Hypogeum, all hands and stomach, without eyes or a soul for them to mirror.
The lights of the laboratory flicker. The image above the pad disappears, and Edward hears a sizzle and crack as something fuses inside the machine. The stink of burnt plastic sears his nostrils.
“Damn it!” Edward shouts. He stabs at buttons on the keyboard, hoping to recall at least something of the image, but it is gone. He throws the keyboard against the wall. The keys snap from their casings and scatter about the room. “Damn it all!” he yells again. He pushes at the ultrasound machine. The heavy machine tips and crashes to the floor. Mrs. Lessup crawls backward up the bed away from him, a look of terror on her face.
“Nothing works in this city!” Edward shouts. “Nothing does what it’s supposed to!” The toppled ultrasound machine is still functioning, emitting a high-pitched whine. Edward looks around wildly at his crowded laboratory. He sees the tiny black hemisphere in the ceiling corner. “Except these damn things!” he shouts, pointing. “We always have the resources to run them!”
He climbs up on the counter and yanks the covering off the camera. It comes loose with a sharp snap. The lens pivots and regards him curiously. Edward sees himself reflected tiny and distorted in the glass. The look in his own eyes cools his anger. He stares at his reflection, at the broken shell in his hand. Quietly he drops it to the floor and climbs down off the counter. Mrs. Lessup watches him with wide eyes. Something in the ultrasound machine pops, and it finally goes silent.
“Oh, hell,” Edward whispers.
Mrs. Lessup carefully steps down off the bed, keeping it be-tween her and Edward.
“Mrs. Lessup, I apologize. I don’t know what came over me.” He opens a cabinet with trembling fingers and reaches for a tranquilizer. Then, thinking better of it, he replaces it on the shelf with trembling hands.
“My baby,” Mrs. Lessup says. “Is my baby healthy?”
“The baby?” Edward suppresses a hiccup of laughter. “Yes, the baby is healthy. He’ll outlive us all.”
“Then what’s
wrong
?” The question is almost a cry.
“It’s just . . . I’ve just been working too hard, that’s all.” Edward massages his forehead. A migraine is growing there. It’s going to be a big one; he can feel it. He opens a bottle of aspirin. This, at least, he can self-medicate. He swallows four of them dry. He hardly notices the bitterness.
“The baby is healthy,” he repeats. “Why don’t you get dressed now. I’m sorry if I frightened you.” He shuffles to his desk and leans against it. Mrs. Lessup does not move. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention this to anyone,” he says.
Suddenly the door flies open, the cheap lock breaking from the plastic of the jamb. A clop with a long mustache enters and presses a soft gun to the side of Edward’s head. “Don’t move,” he growls.
Edward closes his eyes and doesn’t move.
Two workmen with large toolboxes and equipment jangling from their belts follow the clop into the room. They hurry to the corner, where they pick up the black glass shell and examine the camera. Mrs. Lessup pulls a sheet around herself and quietly sits down in a corner on the floor.
“How’s it look?” the clop asks without turning his face from Edward.
“It’s got a few lives left,” one of the men responds, unscrewing a piece. “It’ll just take a few centichrons to fix it. Won’t even need to order any parts.”
The clop taps Edward on the side of the head with his gun, and then slips it back into its holster. “You’re lucky, doc. For a first offense you get off with a fine. If you mess with a camera again, you get twenty minichrons execration, minimum. Got it?” He grabs Edward’s wrist and twists, so that the panel is facing upward. He presses his own ident against Edward’s. The displays blink and flash as the violation flows into Edward’s record, and the credits flow out of his account.