The frayed cable on the crane hadn’t just gashed his face; it had torn his hood. The lifter’s incendiary saliva had seeped through that tear before the diveskin could heal. It had diffused across his face. A thin layer had pooled beneath his eyecaps, corroding his corneas down to pitted jelly. A calm, mechanical voice in the darkness had told Clarke what he expected: the ability to tell light from dark, at least. Perhaps some vestigial perception of fuzzy blobs and shadows. The resolution of actual images was very unlikely. He would need her to be his eyes.
“Jesus Christ, Ken, why did you do it?”
“I gambled.”
“You what?”
“We could hardly have stayed on top of the lifter. There are sterilization measures even if the wind didn’t blow us off, and I wasn’t certain how corrosive this—”
“Why didn’t we just walk away? Regroup? Do it again later?”
“Later we could well be incapacitated, assuming your friend is still contagious. Not to mention the fact that I filed a false report and haven’t called in since. Desjardins knows something’s wrong. The more we delay the more time he has to prepare.”
“I think that’s gullshit. I think you’ve just got such a hard-on for getting back at him that you’re making stupid decisions.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion. If I had to assess my own performance lately, I’d say a worse decision was not leaving you back on the Ridge.”
“Right, Ken. Achilles had me on a leash for the past two weeks. I was the one who read Seppuku ass-backwards. Jesus, man, you’ve been sitting on the bottom of the ocean for five years just like the rest of us. You’re not exactly at the top of your game.”
Silence.
“Ken, what are we going to do? You’re blind!”
“There are ways around that.”
Eventually, he said they’d docked. She didn’t know how he could tell—the sloshing of liquid that contained them, perhaps, some subtle inertia below Clarke’s own perceptual threshold. Certainly no sound had tipped him off. Buried deep in the lifter’s vacuum, the bladder was as quiet as outer space.
They crept out onto the back of the beast. It had come to rest in an enormous hanger with a clamshell roof whose halves were sliding shut above them. It was deep dusk, judging from the opacity of the sky beyond. The lifter sloped away in all directions, a tiny faceted planet birthing them from its north pole. Light and machine sounds came from below—and an occasional human voice—but these upper reaches were all grayscale.
“What do you see?” Lubin said in a low voice.
She turned and caught her breath. He’d peeled back his hood and removed his eyecaps; the gray of his skin was far too dark, and pebbled with blisters. His exposed eyes were clusters of insectile compound bumps. Iris and pupil were barely visible behind, as if seen through chipped, milky glass.
“Well?”
“We—we’re indoors,” she told him. “Nobody in sight, and it’s probably too dark for drybacks to see us up here anyway. I can’t see the factory floor, but it sounds like there are people down there. Are you—fuck, Ken, did it—”
“Just the face. The ’skin sealed off everything else.”
“Does it—I mean, how do you—”
“There’s a gantry on an overhead rail to the left. See it?”
She forced herself to look away. “Yeah.” And then, surprised: “Can you?”
“The guts show up on my inlays. This whole hangar is a wireframe schematic.” He looked around as if sighted. “That assembly’s on autopilot. I think it handles refueling.”
The clamshell doors met overhead with a dull, echoing boom. In the next instant the gantry jerked to life and began sliding towards them along its rail. A pair of waldos unfolded like the forelimbs of a mantis. They ended in clawed nozzles.
“I think you’re right.” Clarke said. “It’s—”
“I see it.”
“How do we get out of here?”
He turned his blind, pitted eyes on her. He pointed at the approaching arthropod.
“Climb,” he said.
He guided her through rafters and crawlways as though born to them. He quizzed her on the color-coding of overhead pipes, or which side of a given service tunnel was more streaked with the stains of old condensation. They found their way into an uninhabited locker room, traversed a gauntlet of lockers and toilet stalls to an open shower.
They washed down. No longer flammable, they turned their attention to blending in. Lubin had brought dryback clothing wadded up in his backpack. Clarke had to make do with a pair of gray coveralls lifted from a row of a half-dozen hanging along one wall. A bank of lockers lined the wall opposite, locked with snapshots and thumb pads; Lubin made a mockery of their security while Clarke dressed. The weave tightened around her into a reasonable approximation of a good fit.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Sunglasses. Visor, maybe.”
Four jimmied lockers later, Lubin gave up. They returned to the echoing arena of the main hanger. They walked brazenly across open space in plain view of eight service techs. They passed beneath the swollen bellies of four lifters, and gaping bays that would have held another three. They wound along rows of clicking, articulated machinery, waving casually across the floor at people in blue coveralls, and—at Lubin’s insistence—keeping a discrete distance from others wearing gray.
They found an exit.
Outside, the buildings were packed so closely that their upper floors seemed to lean together. Arches and skywalks spanned the narrow airspace above the street, connecting opposing facades like stretched arteries. In other places the buildings themselves had melded at the fifth floor or the fortieth, overhanging boles of plastic and biosteel fusing one structure to another. The sky was visible only in dark fragments, intermittently sparking with static electricity. The street was a spaghetti of rapitrans rails and narrow sidewalks doubling as loading platforms. Neither rails nor walkways carried much traffic. Colors were a muted wash to Clarke’s eyes; drybacks would see intermittent pools of dim copper light, and many deep shadows between. Even in these relict nodes of civilization, energy seemed in short supply.
Ken Lubin would be seeing none of the surfaces. Perhaps he saw the wiring underneath.
She found them a market in the shadow of a third-story overhang. Half the machines were offline, but the menu on the Levi’s dispenser twinkled invitingly. Lubin suggested that she trade up from the coveralls; he offered his wristwatch to enable the transaction but the machine sensed the long-forgotten currency chip embedded in Clarke’s thigh, still packed with unspent pay from her gig at the Grid Authority. It lasered her for fit while Lubin got a pair of nightshades and a tube of skin cream from a Johnson & Johnson a few stalls down.
She pulled on her new clothing while Lubin whispered into his wristwatch; Clarke couldn’t tell whether he was talking to software or flesh-and-blood. She gathered from his end of the conversation that that they were in the northern core of Toromilton.
Afterwards they had places to go. They climbed from the floor of the city into a mountainous range of skyscrapers: office buildings mostly, long-since converted to dormitories for those who’d been able to buy their way out of the ’burbs when the field generators went up. There weren’t many people abroad up there, either. Perhaps the citizenry didn’t come out at night.
She was a seeing-eye dog, helping her master hunt for Easter eggs. He directed her; she led him. Lubin muttered incessantly into his watch as they moved. His incantations catalyzed the appearance of strange objects in unlikely places: a seamless box barely bigger than a handpad, nestled in the plumbing of a public toilet; a brand-new wristwatch, still in the original packaging, on the floor of an elevator that rose past the mezzanine with no one on board. Lubin left his old watch in its place, along with a tiny ziplock of derms and plug-ins from his own inventory.