She reaches out and takes the gun from him.
That last part got her attention
, Gloss thinks. The woman turns the gun over in her hands, studying it. “It’s heavy,” she says.
“One hundred percent high-grade steel,” Gloss says proudly. “Not a single piece of plastic in it. What you are holding in your hands is a rare and genuine example of pre-Founder technology. I estimate this particular piece to be approximately 400 years vintage.” Of course, Gloss has no idea if the damn thing works after all this time. He would never waste a bullet or risk an explosion testing it. But he sees no reason to tell
her
that.
The woman’s eyebrows raise appreciatively, but she still seems undecided. Gloss decides to push it just a little further. “It’s a very primitive, dangerous weapon. You must never point it at anybody when it’s loaded. If you hit a man in the head with a bullet, he’ll die instantly. If you hit him in the gut, he’ll die slowly and painfully.”
“How much is it?” the woman asks.
Gloss names an outrageous sum, more than three times what the item is worth, figuring she’ll haggle him down to only twice its worth.
“I’ll take it,” she says.
Gloss doesn’t even blink. He reaches into the safe and pulls out a small box of cartridges. “You’ll need these to go with it.”
HOME
Astrid is a hundred meters away, and a deck down from the Quad Concourse, when she feels a hand on her shoulder. She turns to look, but no one is there, only the meandering crowd of the lower level causeway. “Can we talk?” a voice out of nowhere asks. She be-gins to cry, because this means Samael is dead.
The voice does not wait for a response to its question. An invisible metal hand grabs Astrid by the bicep and pulls her into a narrow, deserted alley. The blender does not work so well in the shadows where there is less light to bend. Astrid can almost make out his silhouette of disturbed air.
“Why did you run?” he asks.
Refusing to answer while being manhandled, Astrid looks down at her arm, where the fabric of her coverup in crinkled and black beneath his invisible hand. Suddenly the sleeve lightens and puffs out as he releases her. Flakes of dried blood cling to the fabric.
“Why did you run?” he repeats.
“I was afraid.”
“No, I mean why did you leave our domus?”
“
Our
domus?” she asks incredulously.
“Yes.” His voice grows steely, impatient. The light in alley dims as he leans forward. “
Ours
. I told you everything I have is yours. And I meant it.”
She looks out at the people passing by on the street. Some of them turn and stare at her as they pass. “Make yourself visible,” she says, wiping her eyes. “I don’t like this.”
“I prefer to remain invisible. It makes me uncomfortable, the way the crowd reacts to me down here.”
“Well, I don’t like looking like one of those vagrant women who talk to themselves. Let me see you.”
He grumbles something inaudible. Suddenly she is floating in the air. He has picked her up and hoisted her over his shoulder. He climbs up the wall, his body shuddering with the impact as he jams steel fingers into the cement. She realizes she can see him. She lifts her head and he is invisible again. It is the blender field: when she is this close to him, she is within the field and he becomes visible to her.
He finds a broken window, and climbs through to a dark room filled with dusty, broken machinery. He sets her down. Through the broken plaster of the low ceiling she can see the girders that support the deck above, vibrating with the tramp of passing feet. The stag-nant air stinks of wet asphalt, even through her respirator. Edward walks past the narrow windows, his armored form becoming visible in the shafts of dusty light. He leans against a wall, breathing raggedly. She stands, wiping smudges of soot from her coverup. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing!” he snaps. Then, realizing he has spoken too loudly, he says more quietly, “I’m fine.”
She says nothing.
He unlocks the helmet and slips it off. His face is sweaty and spattered with blood. His head looks small, cradled in the metal rings of the neckpiece.
“Why did you break my mother’s vase?” he asks.
She sighs. She does not want to be having this conversation. “It was an
accident
.”
“What happened?”
“I was exercising. I knocked it over.” She stops, realizing she is being flippant. “It was an accident. I’m sorry, Edward. I know how much it meant to you.”
“It’s all right.” Edward shuts his eyes, a look of pain squeezing his features. “I forgive you. Now let’s go back home. I don’t like it down here.”
“Edward, I don’t want to go back there. I want to go back to
my
home, where I belong.”
Before he can suppress the impulse, Edward laughs bitterly. “You want to go back? To that little room?”
Astrid raises her voice to override his derision. “Breaking the vase made me realize the truth about a lot of things, Edward. It made me see that I don’t belong in your world. I can’t stay because nothing there is mine.”
“I
told
you,” Edward says, frustrated by her obstinacy. “I give it to you. I give it all to you.”
“And I have nothing to give back to you.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Not to you,” she says, “because it leaves me indebted to you.”
Edward blinks at her, uncomprehending.
“Edward, you’re richer than me, you’re stronger than me, you’re higher class, you may even be smarter than me, whatever that means. Whenever we’re together, you’re in complete control. There’s nothing left over for me. At least my room, small as it is, is
mine
.”
She takes two steps through the machinery, looking for a way out of the room. Edward staggers after her, holding one hand up against his head. He seems to be in real pain, physical and emotional, but she cannot bring herself to care.
“Astrid,” he says. “Astrid, I love you.”
She turns to him, her eyes narrow, her mouth a down-curved line. “Edward, I may only be a dumb quaternary, but I know what love is. And what it isn’t.”
OFF-CENTER
In the Central Chamber of the Hall Mediary, Second Son rests in the chair that was so recently his father’s. The panel on the small desk before him displays the results of the latest plebiscite: the Culminant will have his expedition into the caves, the search-and-rescue for his son. Raising his head, Second Son looks at Selachian, who sits on the other side of the bowl-shaped room. His expression is not that of a concerned father. He looks only somewhat more peevish that usual. The other Mediaries stand, one by one, and make their speeches, arguing tiny points about the size and composition of the search party. Second Son drums his fingers impatiently against the panel, waiting for the random number generator to raise his code. Finally, the green bulb lights and Second Son sees his face projected on the dome ceiling.
“In recognition of the importance of this expedition,” he says, hearing his voice echoing from dozens of tiny speakers in the other Mediaries’ desks, “and of the need for informed and judicious guidance, I offer to lead the search party.”
Selachian stirs in his chair. He presses a button at his desk, and his face appears in a smaller rectangle at the bottom edge of the dome. “Thank you for the offer, Second Son, but . . .”
“
Orcus
,” Second Son interrupts.
“Yes. Excuse me, please.” Selachian tosses off the apology without enthusiasm. “Your offer is kind, but I don’t think it is appropriate for a person of your position to expose himself to dangers such as these.”
“On the contrary,” Second Son replies, “having experienced so many tragedies in my own household recently, I understand how important a man’s family truly is — perhaps better than anyone else in this room.”
“Yes,” Selachian says, grimacing. “I heard about your sister’s . . . accident.”
“I promise you, Mister Culminant, that I will do everything in my power to bring your son safely home.”
Selachian is about to respond when his adjutant leans over and taps him on the shoulder. Second Son watches, smiling secretly, as they converse in that ridiculous sign language they think no one has deciphered yet.
Let him go,
the adjutant signs.
Make yourself look magnanimous.
He doesn’t care about my son,
Selachian signs quickly, embarrassed to be taking up the Prime Medium’s time with a private debate.
He’s only looking for the publicity.
Of course,
the adjutant signs impatiently,
but the tunnels are dangerous. He could have an accident.
Second Son has to suppress an urge to laugh. They are so obvious, their thoughts so shallow. Selachian glances in Second Son’s direction.
Second Son assumes his most serious yet casual demeanor. He raises his nonexistent eyebrows as if curious what all the commotion is about.
Selachian looks at him intently. “Very well,” he says. “You may accompany the expedition in a supervisory capacity.”
Second Son smiles. “Thank you Mister Culminant. You won’t regret putting your faith in me.”
He leans back in his seat, thinking,
By that time, you’ll have much bigger things to worry about.
TECHNOLOGY
In the gallery overlooking the Hall, Amarantha stands close to the edge and looks out over the Prime Medium. She puts one hand against the glass. It has been treated in some way; her fingers do not leave a mark on its surface.
She lays her toolbox down on the ground and undoes the latch. The Hall is filled with the Hypogeum’s most advanced technology, the latest security instruments.
All that technology doesn’t mean much
, she thinks,
when it’s not applied properly
. She had walked right past the guards, smiling with a charm that had taken all of her nineteen years to perfect. They had smiled in return. She was a beautiful, young woman in a frumpy electrician’s uniform and cap. How could she be dangerous? They had waved her through without even opening her toolbox, much less rooting through it to the bottom compartment where the revolver was hidden.
She reaches into the box and grips the handle of the revolver. She glances up. No one in the sparse crowd is watching her. No one seems to care why she is crouched here in this public place. She feels a sudden flash of hatred for their apathy.
Amarantha looks down into the Hall. Second Son has just finished some sort of conversation with Selachian. He leans back in his seat, a smug look on his face. Selachian continues to talk, his lumpish face multiplied on the domed ceiling. A running transcript appears underneath his image, but Amarantha ignores it. She is oblivious to everything but Second Son.
He is shifting restlessly in his seat, bored with the proceedings. He turns his head and, by chance, glances in Amarantha’s direction. Seeing her, he pauses, his hand halfway between his lap and his chin, but he makes no other sign of recognition. He is close enough that Amarantha can make out his expression. He is apparently neither surprised nor concerned by Amarantha’s appearance here. He rests his chin on his fist, watching her.
She pulls the revolver from the toolbox. A pair of pliers is dislodged by the motion. They fall to the floor with a clatter. Moving quickly, she takes the revolver in both hands and points it at Second Son, the bore of the muzzle only centimeters from the glass. She takes a breath, steadying her aim. She expects someone in the crowd around her to cry out in alarm. She expects Second Son to dive for cover. Neither of these things happens. Second Son watches her coolly, his chin still resting on his fist, seemingly oblivious of the weapon trained on him. The passersby go on as before, absorbed in their own concerns. For a moment, Amarantha considers returning the revolver to the box. Perhaps no one would notice that she had taken it out. Perhaps she could return safely back home. At this instant she still has not gone so far that she cannot turn back. But she knows that she does not want to turn back.
The recoil of the revolver surprises her when she pulls the trigger. The bullet explodes from the chamber with an ear-splitting roar, and the gun leaps in her hand as if trying to attack her. The force of it nearly breaks her wrist, or so it seems. The glass shatters into a thousand fragments. The people around her turn, frightened and confused. Seeing the gun, they scatter, stampeding away from her.
Meanwhile, pandemonium erupts in the Hall below. Mediaries push for the exits, knocking into one another blindly. Second Son rises to his feet noticeably slower than the others, as if he is only playing a part. Amarantha is not sure where the bullet has gone, but it has not hit him.
She cocks the hammer back, the way Gloss instructed her, and points the barrel at Second Son. This time there is no glass between them to deflect her shot. She tracks Second Son, swinging the barrel to follow him as he pushes away from his seat. She pulls the trigger. The hammer falls with a sharp click. She jumps, expecting the harsh explosion again, but the gun does not fire. She stands unbelieving for a moment, the weapon still held in her outstretched arms. She pulls the trigger again. Again the hammer falls without firing the bullet. For the first time, Amarantha hears the screams of the crowd, the ringing of alarms. Everything has gone wrong. She brings the gun up close to her face, examining it, but she realizes she is only wasting time. She has no knowledge on which to base her examination, no way to know what has gone wrong. She slams the gun against the wall, hoping it is only jammed and that she may be able to dislodge the obstruction.