“Good man,” his supervisor mumbles again, sniffling. He nods his head and looks around, as if searching for something. Then, abruptly, he turns and scurries out the door. Bernie watches it close behind him. He wishes very much that Orel was here with him.
A few moments later, the door opens again. A young man, almost young enough to be called a boy, walks in. He wears a fine, gray surtout. Its shoulders are adorned with the silver zeros of a null-class citizen. The man is bald, without eyebrows or any body hair whatsoever. A small scar draws his lip up on one side.
“Man your post!” he shouts, pointing at Bernie.
Bernie turns to the console and studies the dials. He wonders who the bald man is and what he could possibly want here. Something about him is vaguely familiar, and Bernie feels he should recognize him, but he does not know from where.
The door hisses open again. Bernie hears a scuffling sound behind him. Peeking over his shoulder he sees four men in black and green uniforms carrying a large sack between them. The sack writhes and bucks, so they have to struggle just to hold on to it. Muffled cries and curses come from within. There is a person inside the sack.
The bald man stands at the railing of the foremost tank. He leans his elbows against it and rests his heel on the lowest rail. “Over here, boys,” he says.
The men carry the writhing sack to the side of the tank. One of the men curses as a foot or fist within the sack strikes him in the stomach.
“Over the side,” the bald man says.
The men look at him, uncertain if they have heard him right, but the bald man is not looking at them. He is looking down at the sewage at the bottom of the tank. “Almost empty, right?” he says.
It takes Bernie a moment to realize that the bald man is talking to him. “Yes, sir.” He is not sure why, but he is very afraid of this man. “I just emptied that one a few centichrons ago.”
“Good.” The man nods his head, smiling. “Over the edge!” he commands.
With simultaneous grunts of exertion, the men heave the sack over the railing and fling it over the side. It is almost an eight-meter fall to the bottom of the tank. If it were not for the cushion of sewage that splashes up as the bag hits, the person inside would surely have been killed.
Bernie leans over the edge of the console to see what is happening. He wonders briefly if he should call security, but then he remembers his supervisor’s words:
Do whatever he wants. Anything.
The person in the sack struggles to his feet, dripping with sewage. He begins a series of contortions to wriggle himself free of the sack. Jumping and twisting, he works it up over his hips. By the way he is moving, Bernie can tell that the man’s hands are tied behind his back. Finally he shakes himself loose from the sack, and it sinks into the sewage. Bernie is surprised to see that the person is a beautiful young woman. Her long, auburn hair has been kept dry by the sack, but the rest of her muscular body is slick with sewage. She is blindfolded, and her hands are cuffed behind her back.
The bald man smiles grimly, looking down at the woman as she wades through the sewage to the far end of the tank. She rests her head against the wall and raises one leg. To Bernie’s amazement, she is able to lift her foot up to the level of her head. After several tries, she is able to work her toe under the blindfold and nudge it off her head. She lets her leg splash back down into the sewage. She turns and looks up at the bald man, eyes wild with fury.
“Hump, you bastard!” she shouts. “You’ve descended lower than I thought even you could sink!”
“Low, sister?” the bald man says, with mock surprise. “I’m not the one standing knee-deep in shit.”
The woman shakes her arms, testing the cuffs, but they are tight. She takes a deep breath, controlling her anger. “Let’s get this over with,” she says. “Say what you have to say, Hump, then get me the hell out of here.”
“It’s very simple, Dancer. Things have changed. I’ve had the vision, and Father is out of the way. I’m in charge now. All I want from you is acknowledgment of that fact.”
“What do you want?” the woman asks. “What do you want me to say?”
The bald man smiles. “‘
Master
,’” he whispers. “I want you to call me ‘
Master
.’”
The woman laughs. Her copper-colored hair tosses from side to side as she shakes her head. She seems to actually find the situation amusing. “You’re out of your mind.”
The bald man’s smile does not falter. “Open the gate,” he orders.
Again, it takes a moment for Bernie to realize that the bald man is talking to him. “What?” he says.
“Just a little bit,” the bald man continues without looking at Bernie. “Open it a little, then close it again. Just to give her an idea of what she’s up against.”
Bernie looks down into the tank. “But that woman . . .”
The bald man whirls on him, his dark eyes flashing. “Open the damn gate!” he thunders.
Do whatever he asks
, his supervisor had said.
Anything
. Cautiously, Bernie raises the lever that controls the gate upward. The gate unlocks and slides slowly open with a deep groan. He immediately brings the lever back down, but the gate does not move so quickly. A hundred cubic meters of sewage pour through the half-opened gate, rolling toward the woman in a large wave. The bald man wrinkles his nose at the stench.
The gate slams shut just as the wave hits the woman. It knocks her over and drags her several meters before she can regain her footing. The sewage drains away through the exit gate almost as quickly as it came in. Fighting against the current, the woman slogs her way back to her original position. She is dripping with sludge, her lithe body oiled with slime. Only her face is still clean. She looks up at the bald man with a glare of pure hatred.
“Now do you appreciate your position, dear sister?”
“Get to the point, Hump! What do you want?”
“I
want
,” the bald man growls, “for you to accept the new order, my new position as head of the family.”
“And why all the melodrama, Hump? Are you afraid to talk to me face to face, without your goons to back you up?”
“I will conduct my business however I see fit!” the bald man says. “Real power is a matter of intellect, of strategy, but it must always be buttressed by raw brute strength. That’s why you’re here, sister. My power must be acknowledged within the family before it can be accepted outside. I want to hear it, Dancer. I want you to call me
master
.” The woman gazes up at him fiercely. Bernie marvels at what inner strength she must have, to find courage in her current situation. “I’d rather die,” she says.
“That
is
the alternative,” drawls the bald man.
A long silence follows. The woman takes a few steps away, sloshing through the sewage. Somehow she is able to keep her balance despite the handcuffs. After a moment, she looks up at the bald man again, her wrath suppressed but still lurking in the corners of her eyes. “I’m partially to blame for your anger,” she says. “I didn’t treat you well when we were younger. I know that, and I’m sorry . . . if that means anything to you.”
“It doesn’t. But it’s nice to hear you grovel, sister.”
“By the Stone! Are you so far gone into your paranoid little world that you can’t tell the difference between an honest apology and the groveling of your sycophants?”
“Sincerity,” the bald man sniffs, “or the lack of it, does not concern me.”
The woman frowns. Though the bald man cannot see it from where he is standing, Bernie knows that she is looking up at the rusted ladder that runs up the wall of the tank. With her hands cuffed, however, she cannot possibly climb it. “Listen,” she says, “if you think you’ve had a vision, then I’m happy for you. Let me out of here and we can work together. There’s no reason why either one of us has to be the ‘master.’”
“There is because I say there is! Why are you so stubborn?”
The woman shrugs. She smiles, curiously. “It must be genetic.”
“I’m a reasonable man,” the bald man says. “I’ll settle for you simply calling me ‘Orcus.’ The name is rightfully mine now that Father is dead.”
Orcus
. Bernie stares at the bald-headed man, a chill running up his spine as the ancient name reverberates inside his head. He is only marginally aware of the politics on Deck One, but he has heard of the elder son’s death, and of the political struggle that has ensued.
“I can’t,” the woman, Dancer, is saying. “I can’t accept what you’ve done.”
Second Son grips the guardrail with both hands and leans over the tank. For the first time, he seems to realize that things are not progressing the way he wishes. “Are you so proud,” he bellows, “that you are willing to die for the sake of a single word?”
“It’s more than a matter of pride. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“Why?” Second Son shouts. “Why can’t you give me this one little thing, for the sake of your life?”
Dancer looks up at him, her eyes burning with anger. “Because I’m better than you, Hump! I always have been, and no matter what you do, no matter how many people you kill, I always will be!”
Second Son stares at her, his eyes wide. The veins stand out on his neck and his face turns purple with rage. “Open the gate!” he screams. “All the way! Open it now!”
Do whatever he asks.
Bernie puts his hands on the lever that controls the gate. He is afraid of the bald man. He wants very much to do as he commands, as if he has no will of his own, as if he is only a glove, and Second Son is the hand within. But his hand will not obey him. Somehow he cannot move the lever. He cannot kill the beautiful woman with the copper-colored hair.
“Open it!” Second Son screams. “Throw the switch!”
Very carefully, Bernie takes his hand off the switch. Moving quickly, he throws each of the other drainage switches, one by one, emptying each of the other tanks. The air in the large room vibrates with the roar of rushing water. He wishes Orel were here to see him do this.
“What are you doing?” Second Son shouts. “What the hell is going on?”
Bernie ignores him. He has to bring the levels down in each of the tanks before he shuts down the power, otherwise the pressure build-up could have disastrous results. He is surprised to realize he is not frightened, although he considers it very likely that the bald man may kill him. The sensation of adrenaline running through his veins feels something like joy.
With an articulate roar of anger, Second Son rushes at Bernie. Bernie’s finger pulls down the power switch just as Second Son pushes him away from the console. The lights on the console go dark. “Grab him!” Second Son shouts. “Keep him out of my way!” Two of the men in the black and green uniforms grip Bernie by the arms. Bernie struggles for a moment, but then one of the men twists his human arm up behind his back in a way that makes his shoulder joint explode with pain.
Second Son pushes the power switch back up. The lights flicker and the dynamos make an ominous humming noise at the sudden surge of power, but the engines beneath the floor begin to purr again. Second Son turns his head toward Bernie. “I’ll deal with you later,” he hisses. He moves to the lever that controls the gate. Leaning against it with all his weight, he pushes it up as far as it will go. At first nothing happens, then Bernie hears the locks of the gate click open.
The men in the black and green uniforms walk to the edge of the tank, dragging Bernie with them. Below, Dancer looks upward, her eyes focused intently on nothing.
She’s gone into shock,
Bernie thinks. The huge gate opens with a deep groan that reverberates along the length of the channel. Dancer closes her eyes, her body twisting in an odd way. She seems to be concentrating on something, but Bernie cannot tell what it could be. Sludge begins to pour through the gap. The gate continues to groan upward and the influx of sewage becomes a deluge. The tank shakes: it was not designed to be used this way. The wave of sewage roars forward, bits of garbage tumbling through the thick, roiling liquid. Dancer writhes and twists, as if in some sort of spasm. Suddenly, she leaps for the ladder and grabs one of the rungs. The handcuffs dangle loosely from one arm. Her wrists are chafed raw and bleeding. She throws herself upward, taking the rungs two at a time. Her wild hair, wet with sewage, sticks to her face and shoulders. Her clenched teeth gleam white against her tanned face.
Second Son rushes to the guardrail and looks over the edge. There is real fear in his eyes. Already Dancer is half way up the side of the tank. Bernie watches her lean muscles ripple and bulge as she climbs the ladder, racing against the rushing flood. Her eyes glisten with tightly focused rage. She will kill Second Son when she reaches the top, literally tear him to pieces with her bare hands. The bald man stares down at her, speechless. His face is white with terror. But the rungs are slippery with sewage, and Dancer’s hands are numb from the cuffs. When the wave hits her, she is knocked loose from the ladder. The impact tosses her halfway across the tank. Her cries, if she makes any, are lost in the roar of the deluge. She disappears beneath the surface of the churning liquid.