Select Theisein held his pipe in his hand, fidgeting with it, as he looked out over the city. It was cloaked in darkness tonight. Most of the fires had died out, at least in the direction he was looking.

He sat on his regular bench upon the spoke from Tower 6. It was the only one left untouched, from what he could see.

He put the pipe in his mouth, clenching it between his teeth. He hadn’t any matches and…the old way didn’t work at the moment.

He pulled it out and fidgeted some more, impatient and frustrated.

He heard Select Radigan’s footsteps from far off. The city was hushed–not silent, but scared.

“At least our bench survived,” Radigan observed as he slumped down. “What a interminably long day.”

“More than 250 dead in our Tower alone. The reports from the city are almost too terrible to be believed.”

“They’re about what you’d expect, considering.”

“True.” Theiseim felt that edge of panic that had cut at him all day begin to fade. “In a week, we’ll have more accurate numbers. Then we can move forward with the best data available. You haven’t got a match, have you?”

“Afraid not.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll make do.” He stuffed the pipe back between his teeth. He sucked out of habit, and it irritated him unreasonably.

“Clean up will take some time,” Radigan mused. “That’s the first thing.”

“We’ll have to deal with the unrest in Section 2.”

“That unrest will take care of itself. It always has. There’ll be a whole host of individual issues in the different Sections. It’s to be expected. Let the Guides take care of those. The people will need guidance now more than ever. But the big picture is clean up and reconstruction. Improve on what worked before, change what didn’t. That’s the Jalseian way. Knowledge through trial and error. We’ve been given a clean slate, or as close as we’re likely to get. We shouldn’t squander it.”

Radigan was right, of course. Theisein and Radigan had met for years on this bench to discuss the happenings and rumors of Jalseion and to air their own opinions and plans on how this experiment should be adjusted or how that line of inquiry could be explored more fully. Radigan had the better head for the long view; Theisein got lost in the details. He needed Radigan to pull him out of the rubble and give him the lay of the land.

Radigan sat with one leg over the other knee, hands folded and resting upon his leg, chin upon his chest, staring across the distance to the dark houses. “The Overseer’s dead. It’s not widely known yet. The people liked him tolerably well.” He shifted. “I think I will enter the Cunning.”

Theisein felt a small thrill, like when a hypothesis is proven right. “We need a man who won’t get lost in minutia and pet projects.”

“My thoughts exactly. This is a great city, the Grand Experiment to better the world. Today hurt us. I’ll admit that. It hurt us badly. But it presents innumerable opportunities. This is the beginning, if we’ll seize the moment. The majority of them won’t know what to make of such an opportunity.”

“But you will.” Theisein clapped him on the shoulder. “You will! You make me hopeful.”

They sat, considering the future and it’s possibilities. All around them, Towers crumbled and broke apart. Fires sputtered and died. They could smell death and ash. And below them, a chasm dark and empty and hopeless waited.

The question formed on Theisein’s lips. “And the Well?”

Radigan did not answer, and Theisein chewed worriedly on the stem of his unlit pipe.

“What is it?” the three-year-old asked in his high-pitched voice.

“It’s a dog cage,” said Father.

“Oh.” Son got on all fours. “Woof, woof! Hey, Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m a talking doggy! Woof, woof!”

“Woof, woof,” added his younger sister, crawling underneath the broken tabletop that functioned as a roof for the “doggy cage.” The sides were overturned bookshelves and a nightstand. In the back was a tunnel created by a curtain over smaller pieces of broken wood.

“Is that safe?” Mother said.

“Safe, woof, woof?”

“It’s firm,” Father answered. “Come, let’s get in.” Father crawled into the doggy cage as well. “Daddy-doggy’s tired.” He pretended to snore.

“Wake up, woof, woof!”

“Night-night,” said Sister, pretending to sleep as well.

Suddenly, Son stopped prodding Father. He sat up straight, looking around. “What’s that?”

The noise came from outside the house they had taken shelter in, from a block down. “It’s just some people.”

“Scary people?”

“They won’t find us here. Wake up, little doggy.” He touched Sister, who sat up, smiling and proud.

“Why were the people scary?”

“Remember when the house fell down? Remember how it scared you? It scared those people, too.”

Son’s lower lip jutted out; his face stretched; he began to wail. Sister watched him for a moment, then began to cry too.

“Good job. It took us an hour to calm them down last time,” Mother said. She sat slumped and dusty and exhausted in the corner. She had watched the children for long hours while Father scouted out a safe place.

“Come here, guys, come here.” Father drew them out of the doggy cage. “Everything’s fine. We’re on an adventure now. Isn’t it fun to be on an adventure?”

Son, trying to hold back his tears, shook his head solemnly.

“Sure it is. We’ll all sleep together in a big cave. I’ll make it in the corner over there. It’ll be even bigger than your doggy cage, and we’ll all be together.”

Sister had almost stopped crying. Mother took her and held her close.

“I’m sad, Daddy,” said Son.

“It’s okay to be sad sometimes.” He held his son close, the boy’s head on his shoulder. Mother rocked Sister back and forth.

“I have an idea,” said Father. “Let’s dance.”

“Let’s not,” said Mother.

“Come on, little boy, let’s dance.” Father twirled in a circle, a rough, wild waltz, and Son held on tight. Around and around they went, spinning, bouncing up and down. Son laughed, and Father began to sing wordlessly. It was a simple melody he used to sing silly phrases to Mother, like “Oh, I love you, you cute thing,” or “Will you please hand me the plate of beans.” Now it was a rousing romp.

“Dance! Dance!” Sister cried.

Mother joined half-heartedly. Father hoisted Son onto his shoulders and danced across from Mother.

“This isn’t the time,” she said.

“It is most certainly the time, my dear, just the time,” he sang, off-key. And he added to it:

The world, indeed, is a grand old place
With a grand old sky and a grand old face.
With a boy in my hair and a girl on your hip,
We’re out and about on a wonderful trip.
What care we about the world over there?
We’re secreted away in this grand old house over here.
Sing for the sun and sing for the moon,
Sing for the roof and sing for the tune!
Dance with your legs and clap with your hands!
We’ll make ourselves a very grand old band.
And we’ll sing and we’ll dance,
Sing and sing and sing, and dance, dance, dance!

These last lines were accompanied by great gymnastic feats and fancy footwork, in which even Mother joined.

The song ended.

“Again! Again!” cried the kids.

“Again,” Mother said.

“Again,” agreed Father.

The flames rose and rose, a great roar blasting up into the darkening sky. The heat pressed the onlookers back a full block, but they gazed at the fire with rapt faces. The wood glowed red like nocturnal eyes; the fabric lit up like flashes across space. The fire heaved, exhaling its terrible breath, igniting the wind. It writhed like a spirit, possessing the structure it consumed.

“Burn, burn, let it burn!” they shouted. “Smote the rubble to ash, fill the streets with coals, and let it burn!”

Trent shaded his eyes with his arm and watched the towering fires devour houses, blocks, history. He let the heat flay him. Half the Section burned, an entire district, and people burned within it. Sweat rolled down his face, and his skin burned.

When he finally turned away, he had decided.

The air washed over him, chilling him. But he still burned.

The drums beat. Ba-ba-boom-ba-boom-ba-boom! They beat and beat, the lifeblood of the reborn Section 2, a call and response across city blocks, neighborhood taunting neighborhood, the rhythms mocking and teasing, like shouts out the third story window at the couple across the street. Smaller bonfires filled the roadways, fueled by furniture and store shelves and trash. Their black smoke hung low over the narrow streets.

Men shouted down the alleys. Women called to one another and screamed. Children, like savages, scurried with loot from the shops and trinkets from the dead.

“Trent! Where are you going, Trent?”

He gave the people no heed, but Willow broke away from where the others were eating and drinking. “Where you going?”

“Nowhere.”

“You see this dress? I found it at Sammel’s after it had already been picked clean. Pays to be a scrawny runt, sometimes, it does.”

She was pale and malnourished, her stringy hair pulled back tight. “I know that look,” she said. “You’re out for blood.”

“Maybe.”

“Wait till morning. Whole Section’ll be as hungover as mice in a vat of beer. Slit his throat while he snores, whoever it is, and be done with it. Enjoy tonight.”

“I found a gun.”

“One of theirs?”

“Yeah, one of theirs.”

“You tried it?”

“I’m saving it. They always keep them well charged.”

“This one must be special.”

“It is.”

Trent walked rapidly, and Willow had to jog to keep up.

“This ain’t a normal hit. It’s personal,” Willow said.

“You don’t just take out any old Joe on a day like today.”

“Listen, Trent, let it go. I see the fire in your eyes. I do. But today’s special, like you said. Whole Section’s ruined. What law was here’s gone. We finally got control of the place. We build our kingdom now. Ain’t that the truth? And you’ll be a major player. But tomorrow.” She took his hand and stopped him. “Eat, drink, dance, make love. Isn’t that what you do when the world ends?”

“No. No it isn’t.”

He shook her off and started walking again.

“Who’s so special it can’t wait?” she called after him.

Ten minutes later, Trent entered the Central Justice Hall. He climbed to the third floor and entered the office of Josiah Kemeul. It had been ransacked like the rest of the building. Trent surveyed the mess.

“He’s probably dead already,” he muttered. They’d have pegged his residence early this morning, as well.

He pulled the gun from his pocket and began to pace. It needed to be said, even if he wasn’t alive to hear it.

“I hated you, Josiah. You believed you were right–always. You believed mankind was evil and must be punished. I believed we should be free. And I made sure we were. The Guide gave you bare authority, but you did everything within your power to stamp out all our unruliness and wildness. You lost that battle, Josiah. We won. We won.”

He stopped at the window. Red light and black smoke clothed the Section. In the distance, the conflagration was raging, spreading indomitably.

“But you were right. I wanted to overthrow your order, but I never…. I didn’t know, until today, how hot the fires burned.”

Trent raised the gun to his head, gazing upon the city. It would be ash by morning. Not freedom and power, but desolation and savagery. “I didn’t want this, Josiah. You’re the only one who’ll understand.”

He pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

Trembling, he pulled again.

He examined the gun.

He pulled the trigger one, two, three more times.

With a cry, he threw the gun out the shattered window, collapsed, and let the blood-soaked darkness engulf him.

The athletic field swarmed with people pressing past one another, shouting, moaning. Jon Deeterly stopped a moment, closed his eyes, and pretended he was in the outdoor market near his house. He liked to stand in the market and smell the fresh fruit, the spices, the people in their sweat and perfume. It was a thriving hive, filled with music and laughter.

He’d passed through it this morning–everything taken, broken, destroyed, and silent.

He opened his eyes. You might call what surrounded him a hospital. Too few doctors, too many patients, but it was an attempt at saving as many as possible.

He continued down the next row of injuries, making snap judgments of who needed his assistance and who could wait. He’d been the on-call doctor for the Section 7 conversion plant. He’d seen men missing limbs from accidents with batteries. You grew used to the ugliness of the world. You expected it. Blood, lacerations, protruding bones, stumps–the body was fragile.

“Doctor! Doctor!”

He wore his white coat–well, it had been white–to reassure people and to give him the edge of authority he needed. But it could be a hindrance.

“If you’re not bleeding, I’m sorry, but I have more pressing business.”

“Please, doctor!”

He gave her a bare glance. He sighed and stopped. Of course they’d be in this mess, and of course one would find him. It was like a bad novel.

“How far apart are the contractions?”

She stared at him. “Oh. Oh, no, not that. I just need advice. It’ll only take a moment. I promise.”

He drew her near to keep the noise out of their conversation. “Quickly. There’s no time.”

“My sister won’t come out of her house.”

“Can’t?”

“Won’t.”

“She’s not pinned beneath anything?”

“Most of her house fell, but the room she’s in is largely untouched.”

“I don’t think I have time–”

“She thinks she’s dead.”

Deeterly didn’t know what to say to that.

“Come tell her she’s not dead.”

“Surely, you can–”

“I have. She doesn’t believe me. But you’re a doctor. Take her pulse, feel her head, I don’t care. She’ll believe you.”

“You said some advice, that’s all. People here are suffering. Some are dying.”

“She’s dead.”

“She’s delusional.”

“Will ten minutes of your time really matter that much?”

Of course it would. Of course. He needed to wait and pace and wring his hands and tighten a bandage and tell an old man his leg would have to come off….

“Is it near?”

“Two blocks.”

“Quickly.”

Nothing was quick since the incident. It felt as if everything needed done immediately and nothing could possibly be done until later. They pressed through the crowd into deserted streets toward the house. The entire structure was rubble except the kitchen. The front wall had fallen outward, so Deeterly could see in. A woman sat at a table, sipping from a cup.

“She’s brought you, has she?” the woman asked. She was covered in dust, her clothes and hair in disarray, but she seemed uninjured. “It won’t matter.”

“Dorria, this is a doctor. Let him examine you.”

“Won’t matter, Halia. Doctors see what they want to see.”

“I find that’s true of most people,” Deeterly said dryly. “How did you die?”

“She isn’t–”

His look silenced Halia.

“You can see for yourself,” said Dorria. “I was getting a glass of water early this morning when the world shook and the storm hit. My home collapsed. I found myself here, in the kitchen, untouched. I was supposed to be dead, and so I will be, obviously. As soon as I step out of this room.”

“You’re afraid of moving from this spot because…death has it out for you?”

“We live in this city, this grand city,” she started, “and we have food and education and power. Even in the poorest sections, the lights glow with a switch and children are born and we grow old. And sometimes it would bother me, all the peace and goodness and wealth in this city. Oh, we have problems and riots, but it’s all very good for the most part, just rashes on healthy skin. It makes one uneasy, you know. It’s suspicious, all this goodness. Don’t you ever think that? Look at my sister, heavy with child, as the poets say. Another person from nothing. Oh, don’t explain the birds and the bees to me. I know very well where they come from, but still–the shoe’s gotta drop, don’t it? We built quite the society full of order and progress. We knew it would fall apart. I’m not smart, but I listen, and even those Select talk of entropy, of everything running down, and so I sit here ’cause I know full well I should have died and to live is a strange thing. When I step from here, a car will hit me or I’ll trip and break my neck or a rock will strike me on the head from a four-story fall. I’m dead. So I’m enjoying it as best I can. Now leave me in peace.”

Deeterly had tried several times to interrupt, failed, and now had nothing to say. He turned to Halia. “I don’t have time for this. Leave her be. She’ll come eventually.”

“It’s not safe. I–”

“There are plenty of real problems I should be attending to. Good-bye.”

Halia turned on her sister. “Get out of there!” She stepped into the room.

“Leave me! You’ll kill us both!”

“Stand up! Walk! I need you with me.”

“Let go! I said, let go!”

Deeterly turned away. He’d seen more than a dozen fights today; another hardly surprised him.

Crack! He turned to see the last roof collapse.

He ran back. Halia was already scrambling out. She’d escaped the worst of it.

“How’d you land? How’s the baby?” he asked.

She was crying. “Stupid, stupid woman! Why’d she do it? She’s dead, dead!”

Deeterly started throwing aside rubble. He heard something–she was alive. It was a strange sound, like a moan of deep pain. His brain knew he should move pieces carefully, in case the weight shifted, but his body didn’t listen. No one else needed to die, not even this ridiculous woman.

There she was. Her moaning rose. He should wait, plan his move, but he didn’t. With a tremendous heave, he lifted the main ceiling timber off her.

“Give me your hand!”

She did, and he pulled. Halia was behind him, and she pulled. Trembling from exertion, his strength failed. Boom. The timber shuddered back into place.

The moans were hysterical now. Had he injured her further? He turned to examine her.

She was laughing.

“Saved by the doctor after all!” she managed. The sisters were locked in an embrace, weeping and laughing.

“Dead and alive again,” Halia said.

“Never dead at all. Just stupid,” Deeterly muttered, but it was hard to stay angry. The world might be ugly, but it was a practical joker, sometimes, too.

The room hummed with diffuse light and silence. The candles were not lit; sunlight soaked through the sliver windows hidden in alcoves in the high ceiling.

Beneath the hum, and part of it, was a muted, angry mutter. It was growing louder again.

Lavei sat demurely upon the hard pew, head bowed. She was dressed in plain wool, handcrafted. Her white hands rested on her knees. Her eyes were closed, and she moved her lips wordlessly in prayer. Occasionally, she would open her eyes to slits, turn her head just so, and look across the temple to where the men sat, where Petr sat.

Five knocks, in the familiar cadence, echoed through the high-ceilinged dome. Lavei stiffened. The main door creaked open. For a moment the mutter grew into a roar, an enraged cry. The door closed, and again it diminished to a buzz. Footsteps ushered a family of four, the Mulheans. Each took his assigned seat. The youngest was trying not to cry as his mother hushed him softly and firmly.

Priest Olery approached the altar again. It must be a new hour. Lavei had lost track of time. The priest ran his hand along the length of the altar, an abstract sculpture of geometric shapes strung together and held in perfect balance. After a moment of reflection, he turned to the assembly.

“We come together today to meditate upon the Equilibrium that binds and undergirds the world and that guides our actions along smooth and easy paths. Let us remember again the basic shapes. First there is the prime shape, the Circle–it represents peace, balance, and unity.”

The priest’s voice was strong and gentle, and it filled the space, amplified by the room’s acoustics. Lavei listened, letting the words replace the indistinct din from without, letting the familiar presentation of the Polynomigon fortify her. Yes, the Circle, infinite and self-contained, every point equidistant from the center and so held together in equality, encompassing all like a mother’s embrace. Morality was Circular, first of all–do unto others as they did to you, kindness breeding kindness, wickedness begetting wickedness.

The priest passed from the Circle to the Ray, to the point traveling forward without distraction or delay–moral certainty and confidence–when the noise intruded.

Lavei looked over her shoulder at the door, then to Petr. He, too, stared at the doors. The quiet attention fluttered as men, women, and children shifted, absorbing the change in the pitch outside the walls of the temple. Priest Olery noticed.

“This chamber is rectangular, representing growth and symmetry, but this building is a circle, the ceiling a half-sphere, to remind us that within we are safe. We are in the center. Peace and knowledge reside here. A circle separates; it divides the world in two. Within, the center gathers all. Without, there is no center, no focal point, no boundaries. But we are within. We are safe. Be at peace.”

The sounds of the riot were close now. Lavei could almost make out individual screams, almost understand individual words. Pain and hate and wrath and fear pounded against the walls.

She squeezed her eyes shut and focused on Priest Olery’s persistent voice. She pressed away all other sound. That was not her world; those, not her people. Her people were here.

But restless noises came from within, too. Lavei opened her eyes. Petr was standing, his attention fixed upon the door.

“We should help.” He said it softly, but Lavei heard it even before it left his lips.

The men around Petr were speaking in hushed tones, most still sitting, as befitted men of Equilibrium. Petr shook them off. He looked for help and saw her watching him. “Lavei, there are people dying out there. We should help.”

She lowered her face and did not answer.

“Lavei!”

“Son, if they come to us, we will help,” Priest Olery said. “We are people of peace and goodness. We will not hold back our hand when the opportunity arises.”

“It’s here,” shouted Petr. “The city is on fire and we meditate!”

“Without is chaos,” the priest said simply. “Within is peace. Let them come bearing peace, and we will return it. If they enter bearing chaos, we will be forced to respond in kind. It is better to let them pass in their current state.”

Petr entered the space between the men’s and women’s sections. He stood, lost, in the center of the chamber.

“Lavei,” he pleaded, and he even came near. She burned with shame. “Come with me. Tell me you understand. Tell me I’m right.”

“How do we know what kind of people they are?”

“What kind of people are we?”

“Our temple stands untouched. We are not looting and destroying,” she said. “We are good people.”

Petr grabbed her hand. “Look at me.”

She couldn’t. “Stop this.”

“Some of these people are our people. All of them are neighbors and coworkers. They’re afraid.”

“The only ones who belong to us are those who walk in balance.”

“Even when the world is askew?”

“Especially then.”

He left her. Lavei stared at her hand, where his had grabbed hers. She could still see the red imprint on her pale fingers.

The mob was crashed against the temple, screaming and laughing. Above, a window shattered as a rock fell through. Glass rained down upon the men, who covered their heads.

Petr stood in the aisle, bleeding.

He wiped his forehead, smearing it. Slowly, he returned to his seat, brushing glass from it with his sleeve. Others were quietly picking slivers from their hands and hair.

“The Triangle encourages us with its simplicity and stability. It shows us our three-fold selves, our spiritual selves, our social selves, and our intellectual selves. These three must be controlled, each by the others, before we can truly know who we are.”

Priest Olery’s strong voice washed away the outside world.

She was heavy, so heavy, as if hands held her down, as if gravity clung to her jealously.

Calea knew where she was–in her bedroom. She could lift her aching head, move her good arm and leg, but the others were anchors, shackles. She tried to push herself up, but her mechanical arm would not respond. Her shoulder moved futilely, the great chain of her own invention solid and immobile.

Her breath came in short gasps, suddenly, as the memory hit her. A girl in magic, like a fly in syrup. Her arm, caught between teeth, sucked in inch by inch. Devoured and savored like a delicacy.

Calea forced away the absurd fancy, the fancy of an irresponsible and silly girl. A fancy burned deep by the events of that day. A fancy that gripped her still in dreams in the long, dark nights.

Calea inched forward, dragging herself by hand and foot. She had trained herself to sense the levels of her batteries, to mentally calculate efficiency. They were completely drained. She couldn’t sense….

It was gone. She recognized it by its absence–the Well, with its power, empty. Like a limb removed, one you could almost will to move though it no longer existed.

Her first emotion was pleasure. The girl who had survived smiled and triumphed. The girl who spent her first night faced with the reality that nothing mattered, that everything could change in an instant, smiled and let the warm taste of revenge roll about on her tongue, just behind thin, smiling lips.

It had tried its same old trick–take a leg, take an arm. Calea struggled forward, nearly delirious with the strange emotion welling up. Alongside anger and despair, irrational hot-blooded vengeance. She laughed.

She managed to sit and surveyed her suite. Through the missing wall, she could see the city filled with smoke in the early morning light. Her chest heaved with exertion. Her mechanical limbs had long overcompensated for her fleshy ones.

The joy was fading. She felt tired. The path out of her rooms was made serpentine and difficult by the disaster. Black smoke twirled about in the red light of morning.

The girl remembered the fan above her hospital bed, twirling, twirling, hours passing thoughtlessly, without visitors. She drifted like the smoke, black and rising, churning and formless.

“Guide Lisan!”

Calea shuddered and turned away.

“Guide Lisan, are you in there?”

She wanted to shrink down behind the rubble, like the girl who hid beneath the covers when a friend had finally come to visit, to see what remained of the eaten girl, the girl magic spit out. Scrambling footsteps sounded in the adjoining room.

“Go away!”

“Are you injured?”

“No–not at all! I am collecting my things. Leave me.”

A hesitation. They would go. She knew how to make people listen and obey. She knew how to drive people away.

The girl who survived was not the same as the one who fell in. So much had been devoured by the Well. It had pruned her, stripped away what was nonessential.

No more voices came. She watched the city and considered joining the view, tumbling out and among all those suffering people.

No, the Well had tried its last assault. She survived. It was something. It was all that really mattered. She dragged herself forward, inch by inch. No one was going to pull her out this time. The girl who survived had left her friends for dead long ago.

She was on her own.

“Down with the Select!”

James focused on the words. He heard them drawing close, the old man calling out again and again. He had shouted the same thing before–before today, before it happened. Now he proclaimed the words with a predatory glee.

“Down with the Select! Throw off their shackles! Their pride caused this disaster, their meddling brought the buildings down upon your heads! Listen! We must take advantage of the moment. They are wounded. Look, the Wheel is smoking! We must act!”

James let the words prod him. Heat and heaviness filled his chest; he could not move; he burned with inaction.

“It’s too early,” he snapped.

The man heard him, even amid the shouts and cries and shifting rubble. James had wanted to speak and be done, but now the man approached.

“We must strike now, while they are off-balance.”

James laughed and pointed. The four-story apartment behind him leaned against its twin. “We’re all off-balance. Tomorrow.”

The old man was indignant. He lived in the streets and begged, but now he acted as a king. Everyone knew him–the Select were an obsession with him. He claimed they took power and granted power at their leisure. “I’m on the side of man and mankind. Don’t you desire freedom?”

“I don’t care.”

“They’ve taken everything from us.”

James nodded. He did not agree, not really, but the statement resonated with him. His few rooms, wrecked. His wife…. He looked at her, limp on the ground beside him. He touched her face. He’d dug her out from the weight of the floor above, carried her downstairs, and there he’d sat for…a long time. A few minutes.

“It’s too early,” he repeated.

She almost looked as if she were sleeping.

The old man squatted down beside him, eyes gleaming. “What was her name?”

“Her name’s Illiana.”

“Girlfriend? Wife?”

“Both.”

“Did you get along? Did she nag?”

“She always told me to stop complaining, that everyone’s always complaining, and she didn’t see much use to it, even when times were bad. They were bad enough often enough. She complained sometimes, but when she caught herself doing it, or I caught her, she’d laugh and reprimand herself. We were planning to have kids. I wanted to get everything squared away, make sure we’d have the money, but you’re always scraping by in the Grunt. Always scraping.”

“And they took her from you?”

James shook his head. “It’s too early.”

“They live over there, in their rich towers, studying you like a rat. You’re a number in an equation. She was too.”

James didn’t want to talk. He’d heard it all before. He’d said it before. The night after the factory shut down, he’d brandished a knife and told Illiana how he’d gut the Select. He’d worked in the steel mill, in the grime and heat and sweat, and suddenly someone higher up decided to make a factory in Section 5, and old Hector Mellon, may his bones rot, decided the Grunt no longer needed to support the rest of the city.

He’d not loved it, but he’d done the work day after day since he was 14.

The night after, he’d had the taste of blood in his mouth. He’d have killed any Select where he stood. And in the morning he was a useless lump, smouldering, no longer able to act.

“They don’t care if you live or die,” the man continued. ‘They probably caused this, as a test. They’ll call it urban revitalization. Old Mellon probably nodded his gray head, muttered some wise words, and thought to himself, What will happen to the cost of living quarters if half the population ceases to exist? And then he began to make notations on his napkin.”

The crazed man was speaking lucidly. It frightened James. He spoke so well while the world made less and less sense.

“What would she say?” The man gently touched his wife’s face.

“Mind your own business.” That’s what she believed. To be happy, don’t complain, don’t compare. Focus on your own little world.

He looked at her and wondered if anything of his world would survive when she was covered with earth.

The man tugged his elbow. “You must come with me.”

“I’m staying.”

“We must move. You understand. Help me gather others.”

“I don’t care about all that.”

“Yes, you do. Your face says you do. Your hands say you do. We strike now. Tomorrow will be too late. They will be ready for us by then. Strike while the fire burns hot.”

James remembered the knife in his hands that night, the night he hesitated. He carried it now.

“I can’t leave her.”

“She’ll be here when you return.”

She isn’t here now.

But he held her cold hand. He had not yet left her.

The man tugged again, harder.

“Stay off me!”

“Now! We need to go now! I need you to convince others. Now!” The fury in his voice burrowed into James. He wanted the man to leave. He needed him to leave.

“Don’t you hate the Select?” the old man asked.

“Yes, I hate them.”

“Don’t you want to see them burn?”

“I would not turn away.”

“You will be the first of thousands. The first! The first is the most important, the pebble that causes the avalanche.”

“No. I will stay.”

“With the dead.”

“With my wife.”

“She’s no longer your wife. She’s a corpse.”

“Go.”

“She will not move again. She is dead because of them. Gone forever.”

“Go!”

“If they had their way, they would take her and dissect her. To see how she works.”

The knife was out in a moment. The man stumbled back, blood gushing from the wound. He was too shocked to cry out.

“It’s too soon,” James moaned. “Tomorrow, I would have marched into Barathrum with you! But today, today….”

He laid his head on his wife’s bosom and tried to make the world disappear.

“Hey, no one’s dancing any more.”

Mathus shrugged his shoulders. Eyes closed, he felt the gentle thrum of wind over pipes, the quick brush of air tingling strings, the flicks against tightened skin. It was like keeping seven balls in the air, a dance of delicacy and precision, to manipulate the magic in so varied and so rhythmic a way. And he could juggle seven balls. He’d done eight, once.

“Listen, it’s over. The bride and groom left hours ago. There’re just drunks in the corner. You can stop playing.”

“You’re still here.” It took effort to speak. Spinning plates. He’d done that, too. Ruined a lot of plates.

“And I‘m tired of your incessant pitter-pattering. Let up.”

Mathus started to retort, but the effort broke his concentration. He opened his eyes, dazed. How long had it been?

The man in front of him was bug-eyed and harried-looking.

“How’d you know the bride?”

The man shivered. “None of your business.”

Smells and sounds he’d left unprocessed as he played swept over him. In a moment he knew everything. He smelled the alcohol, the sweat, heard the murmurs and strange, high-pitched laughter. The dozen or so remaining guests would remain until morning, half-alive, sucking the marrow out of the celebration long after it soured.

Which Mathus would have done with his music if left undisturbed. “I owe you. Come with me. I’ll repay you, I promise.”

“I don’t want nothing, just some peace and quiet.”

“You’ll have it. Come with me.”

Mathus led him out of the banquet hall. “We’re going up.”

“If they find us in the penthouses….”

“Not there. Up! Above the penthouses.”

“There’s nothing above those.”

“The roof.”

“The elevators don’t–”

“Of course not. We’ll take the stairs. It’s only 10 flights or so.”

The man stared, wide-eyed. Mathus pried the glass from the man’s hand, set it in a potted plant, and started forward.

The Buildings of Section 6 were little civilizations of their own, products of decades-long city planning. Mathus found the narrow, secreted doorway. Up and up they went, until Mathus’ legs burned. He savored it. It was different from the weaving of notes, the strange intertwining of mental energy and emotion. He was afraid the door to the roof would be locked–it was, in some Buildings–but not here.

They emerged into fresh air. It held an edge of chill that invigorated Mathus. A faint odor of exhaust came from the flues nearby. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

“I…I don’t think so.” The other was out of breath.

“Try the stairs more often. Oh, the elevators are wonders of the modern age, I agree. The Wheel doesn’t have specimens so fine. Here they’re automated for the Normals, and they shuttle us up and down. Section 6 boasts the finest in the world, that’s a fact. But they’re tricky, too. They only take you where you’re supposed to go. You ever think of that? For instance, they won’t take you here. You’ve got to walk here on your own two legs.”

He leaned against the edge of the roof, looking out over the city.

“You said ‘us.’ You’re not one of us.”

“What’s your name?”

“Charles.”

“Hello, I’m Mathus Malcary. What’s this talk about us and them?”

“You know very well.” He indicated the Wheel with a nod.

“I’ve learned that us and them works fine in the abstract but not so well in the specific. Here’s a question–you love her still?”

Charles blinked. “This is nonsense. I’m going down.”

But he didn’t.

“I’ve seen a lot in my time, a lot of faces. Faces like yours. More, I’ve paid attention to my own feelings. Was it the bride?”

“I should hate her. I’d have given her everything.”

Mathus let the words linger. He wasn’t trying to fix the guy, just…reset him. Everyone worked himself into ruts, let himself become a caricature. Mathus would have played until dawn, exhausted, hating his music by the end, if Charles hadn’t stopped him.

The light of the Well glowed softly against the spokes and the Towers. Scuffling feet, snatches of voices, rose up in the air.

“What do I do?” Charles asked. “What happens now?”

“Something else.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

Mathus shrugged. “I’ve been restless, all my life restless, moving, changing, experimenting. Say what you want about Thyrion, Jalseion is the greatest city in the world. Every idea and half-baked notion crammed into one place, a wild tangle of reality and theory and nonsense. Something else always happens. Might as well be ready for it.”

“I won’t love anyone else ever again.”

Mathus almost managed to hold his tongue. “The heart always loves again. Unless you kill it.”

The dim glow of the Well pulsed, like a heart beating.

“She was it. Everything.”

“You’re still here. That’s something.”

“I’ve half a mind to jump.”

The Well thrummed with energy as Charles looked at him for an answer.

“And half a mind not to.”

“You want me to jump? I’ll do it.”

“Of course not. Get down.”

Charles lowered his leg.

The light shuddered. It flashed, like a bulb before sparking out. A roar–a boom–followed, compressing them. A blow, like a fist, slammed into the building. The wall crumpled. They entered the air, brick and mortar flying around them like dandelion fluff.

Mathus caught Charles’ face as he twisted in the air–a look of horror and regret and desperation. The man didn’t want to die; he was just looking for a way to live.

They spun and fell. Mathus existed in a state of calm. Shock, probably. Charles opened his mouth but could not scream. The ground rose up to catch them. The Building buckled, explosions shaking it, blowing out windows, exposing rooms and floors as they passed.

Mathus didn’t want to die, either. He wanted to suck the marrow out of life.

He tried to convert the magic around him, but it was weak and thin, wisps where there had been ropes. Maybe enough, if he played it right in the careening and debris and rush. One last song. One last dance.

He accelerated the air molecules, directed the wind, and cushioned Charles as he reached the ground.

Charles would hate himself for surviving. Perhaps he would jump for good later. It didn’t matter. Mathus had loved plenty in his life. It was time for something else.

He hit the ground and broke.

The faces were vague, like phantoms seen in a dream–but Overseer Piers knew she was not among them. He hurried forward, pressing through the crowd of strange faces, unable to focus. He knew, somehow, in which direction she would be. It was a father’s instinct, the certainty of necessity.

There was pain somewhere inside him. He couldn’t place it and sometimes it did not hurt at all. He looked for blood on his hands, touched his head expecting warm stickiness, but he was whole and well. Outwardly.

This is the end, he thought, and I haven’t seen her. She will die without my seeing her again.

Section 8 tilted crazily in the aftermath. The streets led to places they had not the day before and buildings blocked paths that should have been open. The people pushed and shoved and held him back. Didn’t they recognize him?

“I am looking for Esmerda Piers. Do you know where she lives?”

He did not know why he spoke that way. He knew where she lived. He was nearly on her doorstep.

How his head throbbed!

He knocked rapidly, knocked, hoping, praying she would answer. He had been here only once before.

“It’s the end. We’re dying. Can’t everything be forgiven, everything reconciled?” he pleaded.

He tried the door. It opened. He walked in. The entryway was empty, but he heard talking further in.

She was at the kitchen table, eating with her husband. Her oldest child was married, he remembered, but her other two should have been home, especially after what had happened. When he stepped into the room, conversation stopped. Esmerda looked at him.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Her apartment was immaculate. The lights were low. Candles flickered on the table. He had interrupted a private meal.

“The city is dying,” he said.

She stared unblinkingly at him.

He approached. “I–I thought you might be…. We haven’t talked in years.”

“How many years?”

He stopped short.

“How many?” she demanded.

“I–I don’t know.”

“Seven years, three months, and two days, dad.”

“I’ve tried–”

“Have you?”

“There’s so much to do.”

“Reports to write, reports to read, theses to examine, to tweak, to test in double-blind studies. Stars to count, sand to shift, dirt to let sit. Rabbit trails to follow. Curricula to rearrange, children to retrain, graduates to reassign. Patents to approve, rivals to disprove, students to reprove. Papers to beget, Sections to refit, people to forget.”

“They’re burning now,” he said.

“Yes.”

He took another step, hesitantly. “I–I just want to hold you, like when you were a child and loved me. When I would read to you and you’d say, ‘Again, Again!’”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I do! I do! Let me hold you, please. Just for a moment.”

She stood. “I don’t think I should.”

“Please….”

He closed his eyes, unable to bear her gaze. He felt pressure against him. Solid pressure that built and built. It hurt. Her embrace was so fierce. He wouldn’t let her go, not for anything, never again. Never.

Beneath the solid metal beams that once supported the ceiling of his study, Overseer Piers lay crushed and bleeding, dying, dying, dying….