On landing, Edward stumbles. The fraction of a second it takes him to regain his balance is all the time the man needs. He brings the whip down toward Edward’s head, the white-hot tip roaring as it approaches the speed of sound. It wraps itself once, twice, three times around Edwards’ neck, with the awful screeching sound of metal against metal. Edward is thrown to the ground by the force of it. He reaches up to his neck, expecting to find it ripped and bleeding, but the neckpiece of his armor is only scratched.
Stupid of me,
Edward thinks.
Of course he can’t hurt me.
He grabs the whip and yanks at it. The man is pulled forward, off balance. He looks stupidly at his empty hand. Edward stands, unwraps the whip from his neck, and throws it to the ground. The air smells of sweat and scorched metal. The whispers of the crowd have become a chant:
Winnower. Winnower. Winnower.
Too late, the man drops into a defensive posture. Inwardly Edward laughs at the man’s bravado. He moves in swiftly and knocks the man’s arms aside with his left hand. He strikes with his right, hitting the man in the face with the heel of his palm. The man’s respirator shatters, and his head snaps backward. He falls senseless to the concrete. A pool of blood slowly begins to grow around his left ear.
Edward looks away. If the man is not dead yet, he soon will be. The crowd erupts into cheers and applause. The men shake their fists and make the thumbs-down sign, as if they were spectators in the Palaestra. Despite himself, Edward is moved by the applause.
He turns toward Astrid and Samael, whose thin face is white with fear. Edward walks forward with slow, measured steps. He has never felt so powerful. It is as if his every step could shake the city.
Samael releases Astrid, who stumbles away. Alone now, the man stares at Edward for a moment as if trying to decide whether to flee or stand his ground. Fear wins out. He turns and tries to run into the crowd, but a swarm of hands push him back. He looks wildly around for an avenue of escape, but the crowd is thick all around him, shouting and jeering.
“How does it feel to treat human beings as a commodity?” Edward asks, walking toward him. “How does it feel to traffic in souls?” Someone in the crowd spits at Samael. It hits him in the forehead and slowly rolls down the side of his face. He does not bother to wipe it away. He is shaking violently, barely able to stand. His eyes dart back and forth.
“Is this how you get all your girls?” Edward asks, loud enough for the crowd to hear. “Are they all kidnapped?”
For the first time, Samael looks directly into Edward’s face. His eyes are red and watery. His absurd pointed teeth show as he grins weakly. “What?”
Edward frowns. He is not used to repeating himself. “I said . . .”
“Is that what you think this is?” Samael says quickly. His voice is high and strained, with an accent Edward does not recognize. “A kidnapping?”
Edward stops walking. In the sudden silence he realizes his ears are ringing, a precursor to one of his headaches. Samael laughs nervously, a sound that is almost a sob. “
She
commed
me
!” he says. “She wanted to come home, but she didn’t know the way. That’s all I was doing, neighbor. Escorting her.”
The ringing in Edward’s ears grows. It’s going to be a bad one. He touches his gauntleted hand to the side of his head. “Don’t lie to me,” he growls.
“I’m a quaternary!” Samael says, holding out his ident for Edward to see. “Could I have gotten up to Deck One without an invitation?”
Edward’s heart sinks. He is right. Samael would not have been permitted to enter Deck Seven, much less get as far as Edward’s door. He looks to Astrid for some sort of explanation. “Is this true?” he asks, turning. But Astrid is gone. She has disappeared into the crowd.
“See?” Samael says, laughing stupidly. “I didn’t kidnap her. She wanted to get away. I was just doing what she asked!”
Edward doesn’t reply. He is confused and uncertain what to do next. Pain is crawling like an insect through his brain. Someone in the crowd boos. A half-eaten piece of food strikes Samael in the chest, leaving a wet, green stain. Samael looks around, frightened. “I didn’t
do
anything!” he shouts.
Edward scans the crowd, looking to see if Astrid is still somewhere among them, but all he sees are angry faces. The chant grows louder:
Winnower. Winnower. Winnower.
He looks at Samael, who is sweating so heavily that his red makeup has started to run. How could Edward ever have thought this man was dangerous? “You’re still a pimp,” Edward says.
Samael frantically hits the keys on his ident, calling up a confirmation. “I’m fully licensed,” he says, holding it up for Edward to see. “I’ve never even been late with a fee. Everything I do is legal.”
“Shut up,” Edward says, pushing him. It is not a hard push, but Samael stumbles over his own feet and falls to the ground. The crowd bursts into applause and screams with laughter, as if Samael’s pratfall is the funniest thing they have ever seen.
Edward turns to leave, but the crowd is tight all around him. Their garish faces watch him expectantly. Many of them make the thumbs-down sign. The show isn’t over yet. They will not let him leave without a second murder. The chant begins again:
Winnower. Winnower. Winnower.
And it would be murder,
Edward realizes. Not justice. Not even revenge. Just murder.
Edward feels the will of the crowd pressing in on him. Their aggregate desire strikes some biological chord deep inside him, an ancient social imperative, urging him to allow their will to become his. The pressure of their eyes is a frightening thing. In his head, Edward has always imagined audiences to his deeds, the sympathetic audiences of posterity, but it is a different thing to have them bodily before him, weighing and judging his every motion.
At this moment these people think he is a god. If he leaves now, they will think much less of him. Besides, Edward can see that he has whipped them into a frenzy of blood lust. Even if he does manage to leave now, the crowd will still tear Samael to pieces themselves after he is gone.
“All right,” he says, stepping close to Samael. He extends a hand to touch Samael on the shoulder. Samael is weeping and shaking violently. “Don’t move,” Edward whispers. “I’ll make this quick.”
“But I didn’t . . .”
In one swift motion, Edward’s other claw flashes forward and rips Samael’s larynx from his throat. Arterial blood splashes everywhere, soaking Edward and the crowd. Samael’s body jerks once, then collapses backward. He falls in an ungainly posture, his knees bent out to either side. Edward steps over the body. He holds the bloody piece of throat above his head. The crowd cheers. Some of them are dancing.
Edward throws the larynx into the crowd. One man actually tries to catch it.
Edward watches the crowd, suddenly feeling very tired. His head aches, and his ears are ringing. A few men kneel by the bodies, looting them, ignoring the blood that seeps into their leggings. They reach into Edward’s abandoned duffel bag and jubilantly throw pieces of clothing into the air.
There’s no end,
is there? Edward thinks.
No end to your hunger.
THE FACE OF THE CULMINANT
The lights in Kitt Marburg’s domus suddenly come on, and she is awakened by the soft but insistent bleating of the comm alarm. “Priority Override Transmission,” Image announces in its bland voice. “Please answer the comm.”
Kitt opens her eyes and rolls out of bed, without stopping to comb her hair or otherwise compose herself. She does not like to be disturbed during her time off and sees no reason to make herself look any more pleasant than she feels. She considers appearing at the comm naked, as a reproach to whoever is rude enough to be bothering her, but decides against it. She wraps herself in a blanket and pads to the transmission area. She slaps the receive button.
The air above the holopad flickers, darkens, and fills with the innocuous face of Harrel Selachian, the Culminant. He wears an uncomplicated, dark coverup, and a red mandilion. The only decoration is the gold sash of his office. He balks momentarily at her disheveled state.
“I know it’s the middle of the day in your cycle, Selachian,” Kitt says sharply, “but for me it’s the middle of the night.”
Selachian frowns. Like many politicians, his inner fire is masked by a very ordinary countenance. Kitt is not sure why Selachian never corrected his weak chin or his receding hairline. Perhaps he likes to appear as a simple man of the people. “My son is missing,” he says. His voice would sound prissy to an ear less well trained than Kitt’s.
She blinks, adjusting herself to wakefulness. “They’re only half a day overdue. They could simply be delayed. You know how it is with young men when they’re having a good time.”
“Not my boy. Eno is very punctual. Always right on time.”
“I see.” Kitt could care less if Selachian’s worthless child fell down a bottomless pit, but she tries her best to sound concerned. Selachian could easily ruin her. With a single signature he could cut her out of the commlink forever.
“Let me tell you what we’re going to do about it,” Selachian says. His voice has the sing-song quality of a prepared speech, as if years of habit have made the cadence instinctual, but his expression is one that would frighten the average voter. “I am going to organize a search party to go after my son. I estimate that the organization will require a minimum of fifty security officers, each armed with both crowd-control weaponry and cave-in rescue equipment.”
“Isn’t that going to be rather expensive?” Kitt asks, already sensing where Selachian is leading her.
“That’s where you come in, Marburg. I expect a great deal of resistance to the proposal from my enemies in the Prime Medium. You are going to talk to all your friends and convince them of the importance of this mission, so if the matter comes to a vote I will have all the support I need. I don’t care who you talk to or what you say, so long as I win that vote.”
“Actually,” Kitt says, pulling the blanket tighter around her chest, “that’s not as easy as you make it sound . . .”
“Need I remind you, Marburg, that this expedition was your idea in the first place? That it was you who sent those poor boys into the caves, ill-prepared and ill-equipped?”
Kitt closes her eyes and touches her fingers to her forehead. He has a noose round her neck, and he will not hesitate to pull it tight. “I’ll do what I can,” she says.
When she opens her eyes again, the holopad is clear.
SIBLING RIVALRY
Bernie Pratt looks over the console that controls the channeling tanks. He sees that the level in one of the tanks has risen near to capacity, so he throws the switch that opens the gate. With a loud sloshing and gurgling, thirty metric tons of raw sewage sluice through the gateway and down the tubes to the main settling tanks.
The dreary job is even duller without Orel helping him. Bernie wishes his partner would get back from his expedition. He wonders if it is possible that Orel has found nothing of interest in the caves. Perhaps Orel will simply return to his job and things will go on as they did before, as if nothing had changed.
The door slides open and Bernie’s supervisor walks in. He is a small, unpleasant man who can never seem to remember Bernie’s name.
“Bernie!” he shouts. “Good to see you!” He makes as if to slap Bernie’s shoulder in comradely enthusiasm. Then, realizing he is about to touch Bernie’s cybernetic arm, he quickly changes position and slaps Bernie’s other shoulder. “How are you?”
“Okay . . . I guess,” Bernie says. He does not trust this sudden familiarity.
“Good. Good.” Bernie’s supervisor sniffles. His eyes are beginning to water in the pungent, methane-filled air. “Listen, Bernie,” he says. “I need you to do something for me. Two things, actually.”
Bernie cringes inwardly. “What?”
“Well,” his supervisor says, clearing his throat, “a guy is going to come in here in a few centichrons, and he’s going to ask you to do some things for him. I want you to help him, even if what he asks for is against regulations. I want you to do whatever he wants.” The supervisor pauses, looking back at the door. “Whatever. He. Wants. Got it?
Anything
.”
Bernie cannot believe it.
Even if it’s against regulations?
“Who is it?” he asks.
Bernie’s supervisor closes his eyes as if in pain, and waves the question away. “The second thing I need you to do is to forget everything this man does, everything he says, everything that happens in this room.” The supervisor grins broadly, but the smile does not extend to his eyes. He looks scared to death. “See my point? Easier to forget if you don’t know anything in the first place, right?”
His fear is contagious. Bernie looks at the door nervously. “But what is he going to . . .”
“
Right?
” his supervisor interrupts loudly. “Am I right, Bernie?”
“Sure, but . . .”
“Good man!” Bernie’s supervisor slaps him on the shoulder again. He looks into Bernie’s eyes, as if seeking some sort of reassurance. But Bernie is terrified. He does not like uncertainty, and he does not like being left on his own.