IMAGINATION
The eyes of Orcus, which once ranged across the entire Hypogeum, are focused on a single tiny spot. The location commanding all his attention is a piece of yellowed linoleum, a patch of floor located eight centimeters in front and to the left of his right foot. He is concentrating on it because that is where he is planning to take his next step.
With an effort, he leans his weight on the walker and slides his left foot forward. When it reaches its goal, Orcus shifts his weight back to the center and takes a deep breath. His scarred heart thumps feebly, trying to push the needed oxygen to his limbs. He leans against the aluminum bar of the walker. He needs a rest before attempting another step.
Wearily, he lifts his head and looks at his eldest daughter and his youngest son. The one is tall and lithe, the other shorter and thick, as if the two are expressions of contradictory physical principles. Dancer stands with her arms crossed over her chest. She leans from side to side, anxious for action. Second Son watches her from the corner of his eye, sullen but solid.
Yet both are my issue
, Orcus thinks.
Both carry my blood in their veins. And now they are together.
“So you won, did you?” he asks, shamed by the waver in his voice.
“I got what I wanted.” Second Son lifts his chin and smiles. The cut in his lip where Cadell hit him has knotted into a dark scab, making his smile look like a sneer.
Orcus rests a moment longer. He leans both elbows on the walker, remembering when he was Second Son’s age. “It feels good to win, doesn’t it?”
Second Son’s eyebrows — or the ridges where his eyebrows would be, if he had any — lower in a serious look. But the smile remains. “Yes,” he says.
Dancer steps forward. “If you don’t mind, Father, Second Son and I have work to do.” Orcus can see that it is an effort for her not to simply grab Second Son and walk out. She is controlling herself out of respect for him.
But Second Son waves her away. “I’ll be along presently,” he says, holding up his father’s book. “Father asked me to return this to the library.”
“Have one of the servants do it. This is more important.”
“Let him go,” Orcus says. “I don’t like the old ones to be out of their case too long.”
Dancer ducks her head in annoyance. “I need him to come with me, Father. We have important work to do. We have to prepare for the Mediary vote.”
“There is nothing more that can be done to influence the vote. Go on without him.”
Dancer stamps her foot. The tendons stand out on her neck. “If we lose this vote,” she says, “it will be on your head.”
“A great deal more than this vote is on my head. Go. Do what you have to do.”
Dancer turns on her heel and stomps out of the hospital room, slamming to door behind her.
Second Son waits for the door to stop rattling in its frame. “You shouldn’t be so hard on her, Father. She’s an excellent tactician. I’ve learned a lot working with her these past few days.”
Orcus shakes his head. “You’re right in one way,” he says. “She’s an administrator, and a good one. But she is not a leader.”
“Just because she’s a woman doesn’t mean she can’t lead.”
“Her sex has nothing to do with it. Your grandmother ruled her husband with an iron fist, and the family has never been so prosperous as it was in her day. The problem in this case is more abstruse. Dancer has great resolve and considerable talent, but she is lacking in other, less tangible, qualities. She has no . . . imagination.”
Second Son nods his head, considering his father’s words. Since his and Dancer’s wedding night, everything seems more comprehensible to him. Things that were once unattainable seem within reach. “What about me, Father? Do I show signs of imagination?”
Orcus studies his son’s face for a long time. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “Perhaps. My powers of observation are not what they once were.”
Second Son looks down. He is oddly moved by his father’s words. “Your powers are undiminished,” he says. “You’re tired, that’s all. I’ll let you get some rest.”
Orcus waves him away. He has no patience for sentimentality. “Good. Get that book back in its case. And have the doctor look at your lip. She can sew it back up so you’ll never even know it was cut.”
Second Son pauses in the doorway. He puts his fingers to his lip, feeling the hard, rough beginnings of a scar. “Actually, I was thinking of leaving it. I almost like the way it looks.”
Orcus watches as Second Son slides the door softly shut behind him. Then, taking a deep breath, he lowers his gaze and returns his attention to the task of taking another step.
CADELL
“Here we are, sweetheart,” Amarantha says. “We’re home.”
Cadell stands outside the doorway, looking blankly into the room. Amarantha takes his elbow and guides him over the threshold.
“Good to be home, hmm?” she says.
Cadell blinks. He looks at her, then at the room again. A green and yellow bruise runs across his throat. At the center it is black and blistered where the current from the shockstick entered his flesh. Amarantha notices that Cadell’s Adam’s apple is not the same shape it once was. “Would you like some pop?” she asks.
Cadell does not respond. He is looking at his feet. He lifts his toes, swaying gently to balance himself, then lowers them. He seems to think about it for a while. Again he lifts his toes. And lowers them. Lift and lower. Lift and lower.
“Sure you would,” Amarantha says, trying to keep her voice level. She goes to the cabinet and pulls out a canister of bloodpop. She hands it to Cadell. After he has stared at it for a while, Amarantha takes his right hand in hers and lifts it, showing him how to hold the can.
He turns it in his hands, smiling at the feel of the smooth metal. Carbonated liquid begins to dribble out onto the floor. Amarantha takes the can back from him. She reseals it. “Maybe we should sit down,” she says.
With her hand on his shoulder, she guides him to the chair. She turns him so that his back is toward it. Gently, she tries to push him into the seat, but he resists, not comprehending her purpose. She steps back and mimes the action of sitting. He watches her curiously. Finally, she simply pushes him into the chair. He falls hard, unprepared, and the chair nearly tips over. He scowls at her for a moment and opens his mouth as if to complain. Then he shuts his mouth and looks around, taking the room in from this new perspective.
She crouches down beside him, looking into his eyes. She loves his eyes. They are either blue or brown or gray, depending on how you look at them. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart,” she says, taking his hand in hers. “I’m sure you’ll feel better soon. Very soon.”
He smiles and reaches out to touch her face. She closes her eyes and lets his long fingers roam across her features. For a moment everything is all right.
His hands leave her face. She feels him tugging at the can of bloodpop. “Thirsty now?” she asks, unsealing the canister. She holds the can to his lips and lets a little liquid flow into his mouth. He tastes it, making soft, smacking noises with his lips. Grinning, he takes the can from her and upends it over his mouth, quickly swallowing the entire can. The sides of his face glisten with sticky, red rivers of pop.
Amarantha gets a towel and wipes off his cheeks. He smiles and nuzzles his face against the cloth.
“I know you’ll feel better in the morning, sweetheart,” Amarantha says. “I know you will.”
DEATH WISH
“Back from the dead,” a voice near him whispers. “I like that.”
Edward turns toward the voice. It is difficult to see through the brilliance of the full spectrum bath, but he can just make out the stranger’s silhouette. He is surprised; he had not thought anyone was near him. Seeing his confusion, the stranger obligingly turns his head, presenting his profile to Edward. Edward recognizes the gangling neck and broken nose of the Deathsman. Like Edward, like all the other bathers, he is naked but for slim black goggles and a codpiece. “What are you doing here?” Edward whispers, angry.
“Getting my vitamin D. Stimulating my pineal. Same as you,” the Deathsman says. The wall panels around them project powerful light of the multiple wavelengths physically and psychologically necessary for human health. Edward, like every Hypogean, comes to the full spectrum baths once a decameron.
“That’s not what I meant, damn it!” At the sound of Edward’s voice, several of the other bathers turn their heads in his direction. Edward looks away, embarrassed.
“Perhaps we should find a more private corner,” the Deathsman suggests.
“Perhaps you should leave me alone.”
“Is that any way to behave?” the Deathsman mocks. “You know how much I enjoy your sparkling conversation.”
Edward stands abruptly and looks for an unoccupied bench. “All right,” he says. “If it will keep you from making a spectacle.” He makes his way carefully across the warm concrete. The Deathsman follows. The giant luminous panels drown them in light, obliterating all shadows.
Edward sits in a less crowded corner of the spectrum chamber. The Deathsman limps to Edward’s side and plops down, his gangly, naked body covered in sweat.
“You remain,” Edward says, “the ugliest man I have ever encountered.”
“Beauty is such an ephemeral thing,” the Deathsman replies, unperturbed. He leans his head back, letting the light soak under his chin.
“What do you want from me? Or do you just pester me for fun?”
“Ungracious man. You should be more appreciative of my attention. There are those in the Hypogeum who worship us, you know. Literally worship us. They call us the Gentling Hands. Isn’t that poetic? And yet we never deign them so much as a glance.”
“Why should anyone worship you?”
“Because we bring the peace they desire and the punishment they secretly feel they deserve. This may surprise you to learn, Edward, but most people make a terrible mess of their lives. They grow up with these impossible ideals, these
illusions
in their heads of how they think their lives should be. They mistake these fantasies for attainable goals. The perfect marriage. The perfect job. Perfect control. Perfect
justice
. They run around, perpetually exhausted, hating themselves for failing their own impossible standards and hating others for what they perceive as judgment of their failure. Is it any wonder they welcome the release we bring?”
Edward wipes his brow. He is too warm in all this light. “You make us sound like a city of neurotics.”
“I see it every day,” says the Deathsman. “We are all being slowly driven mad, a quarter million of us crammed into this tiny space. Consider the Winnower, for example.”
Edward turns his head to look at the Deathsman. His illuminated face looks harsh and brittle. “What about him?”
“Here is a man who is powerful, who is admired by many people, who is successful — by his own unique standards — and yet he is killing himself. The armor he wears was designed before the air became toxic. It has no respirator built into it. He runs about in the fumatory unprotected, slowly poisoning himself. Why do you suppose he does that?”
“I have no idea. I suppose he considers it a symbol of his power, his invulnerability.”
“The only thing it symbolizes is a death wish. The man is literally suffocating under the pressure of his own impossible standards. Deep inside, he’s afraid he doesn’t measure up.”
Edward opens his mouth to argue, then thinks better of it. He leans back against the warm wall. “I suppose you’d know more about death wishes than I would,” he says.
“Just so,” the Deathsman agrees.
They are quiet for a little while. The infrared warms them, makes their blood flow.
“How did you develop that gash in your leg?” Edward asks.
“Nothing dramatic,” the Deathsman replies. “I slipped getting into the tub.”
“I see.”
“And how is
your
health, Edward? I came to visit you at work a few days ago, but you were gone. They said they hadn’t seen you in several days.”
“I was feeling overworked. I took a small vacation.”
“Good for you. I’ve always felt you worked too hard.”
“Maybe I do.”
“You know,” the Deathsman says, “when I talked to your co-workers, I didn’t get the sense that any of them were very upset over your sudden disappearance. Some of them were worried about you, but no one was really distressed. You don’t appear to have made much of an emotional impact on any of them.”
The Deathsman’s words make Edward uneasy. It is not like him to discuss emotion. “I guess I don’t make friends too easily.”
“That’s a shame. Everyone needs friends, Edward.”
“What about you? Do you have any friends?”
“A Deathsman can never really be anyone’s friend. Only an accomplice.”
Edward sits up. The Deathsman’s words are all the more frightening because they are uttered so casually. “What do you mean by that exactly?” Edward asks.