Ruined Cities Page 10

  “Einstein’s balls!” exclaimed Rosco, his hands moving to his throat. “Those aren’t windows. They’re openings into the outside world! We’re dead.”

  B’ron took a deep breath. It didn’t smell like ring air. It was fresh and cool. He could taste the greenery on the back of his tongue.

  “We’ve been out here for a lot longer than two minutes,” he said with a big grin. “Don’t you see what this means? They’re wrong about the outside being deadly.”

  Rosco frowned. “Not all toxins are detectable. We could be inhaling radioactive isotopes and have two-headed children. Or no children at all.”

  “Look,” said B’ron, picking up a sign. “This says ‘Observation Deck.’ The people on this ring must have known the air wasn’t bad.”

  “They could have worn protective suits.”

  “Possible. But if the people on this ring sat here and looked out over the valley, we must have had an Observation Deck on our ring at one time.” B’ron didn’t like where his thoughts were leading. “The mayors must know about this, but they’re hiding it.”

  “Keeping things the way they’ve always been,” agreed Rosco. “If they find out we know, we’ll be as dead as if we’d breathed toxic air.”

  “At least we’ll have a place to hide out where Rusty can’t find us.” B’ron looked at the sky. “Why is the sky growing darker?”

  Rosco smiled. “The sun is going down. It happens every day on the outside.”

  “Look at the other cylinders,” said B’ron. “Their domes are lighting up.”

  “Only some of them.” Rosco looked worried. “Are some of the cylinders empty?”

  “We’d better get back,” said B’ron, moving to the airlock. “My mom will be looking for me.”

  ***

  Over the years, B’ron spent a lot of time in the deserted ring, most of it on the observation deck with Rosco. As he grew older, he saw more and more signs that conditions were worsening on his own ring. His mother and father worked longer hours. Like every youngster his age, he spent hours working on lessons in preparation for his career. At sixteen, his test results would determine his career. If they were high enough, he’d become a technician. Average scores would get him a job as a maintenance worker or service provider. Low scores would land him in the mines like his father or in the horticulture ring like Rosco’s parents. The lowest score would make him a security guard.

  He was hoping for a maintenance job like his mother. With the ring needing more and more attention — some dark corridors in the quadrant were off limits and everyone carried a portable light and a breathing mask now — he wanted to help improve their living conditions. Pockets of toxic air gathered in odd places on the ring, forcing maintenance crews to scramble to prevent widespread sickness.

  B’ron frequently found himself walking along the outer wall, thinking of the cool, fresh air on the other side.

  “Well, well, well,” said Rusty, coming up behind him unexpectedly. “Where’s your boyfriend, Rocky?”

  “Rosco,” said B’ron, turning around, “and he’s not my boyfriend. Where are your little chums, Blubbo? Oh, they’ve probably grown up and been assigned jobs and mates. I guess since you’re the mayor’s son, you can just wander the halls and beat up little kids as a career.”

  Rusty grabbed B’ron by the front of his shirt, but B’ron surprised himself by not begging or pulling away. He was easily as tall as Rusty, and — whether it was the fresh air he’d been breathing or his recent growth spurt — he wasn’t afraid.

  “Too bad you had a little accident while you were out here all by yourself,” said Rusty through clenched teeth. “Somehow managed to break both your legs and maybe your arm.”

  “Legs?” said B’ron, leaning back against the outer wall. “Like this?” Not believing his boldness, B’ron hooked his right leg behind Rusty’s, tripping him as he pushed the bully away. Rusty fell backwards, and B’ron jumped on top of him. Years of being bullied and tormented by the older boy turned B’ron’s fists into hammers. Faster and faster he pummeled Rusty, and his opponent tried to fight back but was reduced to protecting his face from B’ron’s berserker rage.

  Soon he was begging for B’ron to stop, but B’ron barely heard him through the sound of his pulse pounding in his head. Rusty’s nose was broken, both eyes were bleeding, and he choked on a dislodged tooth.

  “B’ron!” shouted Rosco as he pulled his friend off Rusty. “What are you doing?”

  “He said once that my mom had a big butt,” he said by way of explanation.

  Rosco looked down at Rusty, moaning on the floor. “We’ve got to get him to the Waldos.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how we’re going to fix this, B’ron. Rusty and his dad are going to scream bloody murder.”

  “I don’t care,” said B’ron, resisting the urge to kick Rusty as Rosco helped the injured young man to his feet.

  “Help me get him to the Waldos,” said Rosco. “Then you better make yourself scarce.”

  “What are you doing here?” asked B’ron, reluctantly taking Rusty’s other arm and placing it over his shoulder.

  Rosco glanced at Rusty, still moaning and spitting blood as they supported him through the corridors. “My folks said something’s going on in hydroponics. Half the tanks had dead plants in them this morning. The Waldos are working on it, but dad says the seed stock is bad.”

  “Infected by something from outside?” asked B’ron, afraid the outside air they’d let in through the airlock had done something to the cylinder.

  “No,” Rosco said. “Wore out like everything else around here.”

  Rusty mumbled something, but they were at the Waldo office, so they left him with a service worker and made a quick exit.

  I should have kicked him in the head, B’ron thought. Maybe that would give him amnesia or something.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Rosco as they headed towards B’ron’s apartment.

  “Well, if my family and I are going to be recycled, I might as well make it for a real crime.”

  “Being recycled might be a blessing,” said Rosco, “if we’re going to run out of food. What are you going to do?”

  “I’ve been thinking,” said B’ron. “How did everyone enter the cylinder ten generations ago?” He’d fantasized taking his father and mother into the outside, more and more every year as things seemed to fall apart. The problem was getting to ground level and finding a way out.

  “Doorways on the bottom? Really big ones?” asked Rosco.

  “I’m hoping. Where would the controls for such doors be?” B’ron had stopped in the hall and was watching Rosco as he considered the question. He’d already asked his teacher, but such information was not available.

  “The master computer would know,” Rosco said, “but we can’t get in there. You better go to the observation deck before Rusty tells his dad who roughed him up. I’ll sneak you some food later.”

  “I can’t leave my parents to be recycled. I know how to get to the master computer. Mom’s badge opens every door in the ring.”

  “You can’t! It’s not allowed.”

  B’ron grabbed Rosco by the shoulders. “Don’t you understand? Rusty and the mayor don’t matter. We have to get out of the cylinder before we’re all dead.”

  Rosco shook his head. “There’s got to be another way. We can’t live out there.”

  “Our ancestors did. If we can’t, we’re going to die in here.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “No,” said B’ron. “You have to make sure Rusty and the mayor’s security guys don’t try and stop me.”

  “How am I going to do that?”

  B’ron couldn’t look his friend in the eye. “You have to start a fire.”

  ***

  When the alarms went off, B’ron was ready. He had taken his mother’s wrist computer — identical to his own teacher — from her bedside table while she was sleeping and found the closest access to the master computer. He was surpri
sed the mayor had no guard posted. Perhaps the alarm had drawn him away. B’ron wasted no time using his mother’s teacher to enter the small control room. According to Rosco, the master computer was a core of connected equipment that ran the entire length of the cylinder. He’d never been in the control room before, but his teacher showed him the panel he needed to inquire on classified information. The system assumed that if he had a right to enter the room, he had a right to access the information.

  After a few false starts, he found schematics of lower levels of the cylinder but couldn’t make out any exits to the outside. He didn’t think he’d stumble upon the answer so easily. By now they’d have figured out the alarm was false. His mom would have been woken by the commotion and discovered her teacher was missing. Chances are she wouldn’t assume B’ron had taken it, and she certainly wouldn’t think of looking for him in the master computer room if she did.

  History. Wasn’t Rosco always saying he needed to know more about their history? Giving the computer the appropriate commands, B’ron examined the earliest records he could find. There, in the photographs of groups of smiling people was the answer he was seeking. The crowd stood before a tunnel entrance in the ground a hundred feet from the cylinder.

  The exit was underground! Knowing what he was searching for, he reexamined the plans for the sublevels. Different elevators took workers from their habitat levels to the garden rings and deep into the mines. One elevator stopped on something called sublevel 3. Not knowing if it was sealed or blocked from the outside, B’ron had no other option than to find the correct elevator and go to sublevel 3.

  Fixing the correct elevator in his mind, he opened the door and stepped into the hall, directly into Rusty and his portable torch.

  ***

  B’ron’s teacher vibrated to get his attention with a note from Rosco. He’d made it to the deserted ring after he’d activated the fire alarm and wanted to know what to do next.

  Stuck in crawlspace, B’ron replied. Know the way out of the cylinder. Sublevel 3. Use elevator 27A.

  Your location?

  Find the way out. Announce route to everyone on your teacher.

  Silence.

  Rosco?

  The teacher remained blank. He’d lost contact with Rosco, but maybe his friend had gotten his message about finding a way out. When the security forces finally dragged B’ron away to be recycled, Rosco could still save the people in the ring and maybe the entire cylinder. Yeah, if he got the message. If the tunnel wasn’t blocked. If the mayor and his men didn’t grab Rosco before he got the word out.

  B’ron clenched his jaw and decided not to sit and wait for the end. Sliding open the access panel, he checked the hallway. It was empty. Stretching the kinks out of his legs, he stepped into the hallway.

  After peeking around the corner, he headed for the elevator to the sublevels. There were shouts in the distance. The mayor’s security men must have spotted someone in the corridors. Heading away from the noise, he planned a route to the elevator lobby.

  He stopped at every corner, ensuring no one was in his path. Once, he saw three men running away from him, all security guards. Passing a darkened corridor, B’ron was so intent on reaching his goal that he didn’t realize the cross corridor was occupied until it was too late.

  Rusty, armed with his unlit welding torch, stepped out. “Well, Stinko, looks like your luck has run out.” The torch hissed to life.

  Turning and backing away as Rusty approached, B’ron tried to explain. “Listen, Rusty. The cylinder is dying. Rosco and I have been outside. It’s not poisonous.”

  Rusty smiled at the little flame and turned the control to increase its height. “Nice try. Everyone knows it’s dangerous outside. You’re lying.” He moved forward deliberately, forcing B’ron to back up.

  “No. Listen to me. The cylinder is dying. It’s falling apart. We weren’t supposed to be in this tin can forever. Look around you!”

  “Shut up, Stinky. They’re not going to be able to find enough of you to take you to recycling when I get finished.”

  B’ron stood his ground. “If you kill me, Rusty, you’ll never know how to get out of here.”

  “My father says he’ll make me his security chief. I’ll run this ring. Why would I want to get out of here?”

  “Because you’re a scared little boy,” said B’ron, standing to his full height. “A weak bully who needs a blowtorch to stop anyone from speaking the truth.”

  Rusty’s face flushed. “Shut up!”

  “Or what?” asked B’ron, trying to keep Rusty focused on him and not on the figure slipping up behind him.

  “Or else his mother will beat the crap out of you,” said B’ron’s mother, swinging her heavy wrench against the back of Rusty’s head. He collapsed, and B’ron raced forward to turn off the torch. It wouldn’t do to have a real fire destroy what was left of the cylinder.

  Throwing aside the tool, B’ron hugged his mother, seeing a second figure behind her. “Rosco! Didn’t you get my message? You were supposed to be finding a way out.”

  “I couldn’t leave you to fight by yourself. Your mom helped me find you.”

  “Mom?” asked B’ron. “How did you know where I was?”

  She bent down and picked up her teacher from Rusty’s belt. “This fool picked up my teacher when you dropped it outside the master computer room. And your friend here knows a way to relay whatever it sees to his teacher.”

  “So you decided to come and beat up Rusty?” asked B’ron.

  She smiled. “I guess I’m picking up some bad habits from my son. Come on. The mayor’s men are still searching for you. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  B’ron helped his mom and Rosco drag Rusty back into the darkened corridor. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “To elevator 27A,” she said, strapping her teacher on her wrist. “Rosco has already slaved my teacher to everyone’s on the ring, and I’ve sent a message to your father. Let’s go before security sees where we are. When we reach the outside, the people will see how we did it and follow us.”

  They encountered no one on their furtive run to the unused elevator. B’ron’s mom activated it, and they descended to the sublevels.

  B’ron nudged Rosco. “We’ll have to climb to the other habitat rings to tell them there’s a way out, if any of them are left. Then, we’ll have to think about the other cylinders.”

  “The other cylinders?” asked Rosco.

  “Yes, we saw some of them had lit domes. They must have people trapped inside, too.”

  He turned to his mother as the elevator slowed. “Mom, do you think the mayor will let people leave the ring?”

  She smiled and tapped her wrench against her palm. “He won’t have a choice. Now stand up straight, both of you. Everyone is watching us enter the great unknown.”

  “It won’t be unknown for long,” promised B’ron as the doors opened. “Let’s go.”

  WE, THE PEOPLE OF THE CLOUD

  by

  SIMON KEWIN

  Late afternoon on Perpetual Sunday, Wil Drake stared upwards, not believing what he could see.

  The sky, going out.

  Not the glitches and stutters he sometimes glimpsed. A texture pop in the distance or two edges flickering with broken collision detection. The sort of thing everyone saw and no one mentioned. This was big. Half the sky had just switched off. Half the world.

  He scrambled to his feet, heart hammering reassuringly, as he backed away from the outage. Like that was going to make any difference. The terminator cut right next to him, a few feet from the indentation in the sand where his head had been. A wall of nothingness running straight across the beach and over the shimmering water to the blue horizon.

  And what if it had gone right through him? Or if he stepped over the line now. Would that be his death? Wrong word, obviously. Okay, would he vanish for good or be rematerialized elsewhere in the cloud? Somewhere further down the beach?

  The sand tipped away over th
e edge into the void while an old dread clutched at his stomach. Like he was to blame, was supposed to do something. But what? The fault was too vast. The breeze breathed on his face from the non-existent distance. This half of the cloud didn’t know the other half had gone. The world was broken.

  A woman worked her way across the sand towards him in unsuitable stilettos, eyes on the wall of blackness. Dressed all wrong: formal suit, hair up. She was supposed to be given the right clothes before materialization. That was how it worked. Wil didn’t recognize her, but lying on the beach year after year could do that. Plus, of course, there were over a million people in the cloud.

  A little over, in fact: 2^20. Where had that fact come from? How come he even knew such things?

  Other people began to materialize behind the woman, relocated from the outage. This stretch of the beach was usually quiet. He might not see another soul for weeks on end. That was how he liked it. Wil could go for months without talking, unless you counted instructions to an Adjunct for another cold beer, another book. But now people were popping up all over the place. With each he saw a shimmering in the air, a cubist stamp of black squares before the individual appeared. That wasn’t supposed to happen either. Maintaining the illusion was everything. It would be Okay in other clouds, maybe, those with a more relaxed attitude to the laws of reality. Here accuracy was the touchstone. This was Cloud One. The original. Fidelity to the beforelife was its whole point.

  “What is it?” said the woman. “What’s happening?”

  Up close she looked fantastic, a goddess in a flowing cream dress. She must be new. That was what people did when they came here: took on the body they’d always craved. A year or two and they’d get bored, revert to their true selves. Or else go the other way and experiment. But they generally emigrated to a different cloud where people wouldn’t mind. How had this, once the most radical and crazy outpost of human existence, become so dull? And, more to the point, why had he stayed?