Free Steel Sky by Andrew C. Murphy Page A

who kills with the grace of a gymnast, then disappears into the crevasses like a cockroach.
    Orcus pushes his forehead against the plastic, as if trying to ooze through it, to become one with the city. The situation is absurd. The party to celebrate his children’s nuptials begins in a matter of chronons, yet all he can think about is the Winnower! There is something about that make-believe monster that lodges in the creases of his brain, irritating his most menial thoughts. Worse, the same effect can be observed in the men and women below, especially on the lowest levels. Everywhere Orcus looks, someone is whispering about the Winnower. He is an infection, concentrating the resentment of the city like a blister about to burst.
    “Image,” Orcus murmurs, “are you there?”
    “Yes, Orcus.” Image’s voice sounds exactly like that of a well-mannered, middle-aged woman.
    “Who is the Winnower?”
    “I’m sorry. Could you rephrase the question?”
    “I’m not wasting my time with a simple subroutine,” Orcus growls. “Image: Access Main System.”
    Instantly, the voice changes, becomes richer in a manner that would be imperceptible to anyone without Orcus’s appreciation of nuance. “Why, Orcus, I’m flattered. You haven’t spoken directly to me in over ten years.”
    “It’s only because I’m extremely busy. I thought you could help me solve this problem quickly.”
    “It’s because of Stone’s death. You’re uncertain. You need to share your troubles with someone.”
    Inwardly, Orcus curses. He has always hated Image, the only single entity in the city with more awareness than himself. While Orcus sees every action performed by the Hypogeans, Image sees deeper, into their very souls. It was the Founders who designed Image this way. They saw that maintenance of the Hypogeum’s fragile ecology would require a single simulated intelligence to coordinate its diverse processes, so they created Image, weaving its software holistically into every computer in the city, including the systems that would one day control the cameras. Then, as a safety measure, they programmed Image to monitor the psychology of the Hypogeans, in an effort to keep them psychologically as well as physically healthy.
    “Don’t evade the question,” Orcus growls. “Who is the Winnower?”
    “You know I am not permitted to divulge personal information about the citizens of the Hypogeum.”
    “I also know that you can overrule that prohibition when public safety is at stake. There’s a murderer on the loose.” Then, thinking of the Deathsmen, he adds: “An unsanctioned murderer.”
    “Is he?”
    “Is he what? Sanctioned?” Orcus turns from the window, intrigued for the first time. “Are you implying that someone is coordinating the Winnower’s activities?”
    “Perhaps if you told me what you already know or have deduced about the Winnower, then I could help you a little more.”
    Orcus snorts with irritation. He would have tried to have Image destroyed years ago, if it weren’t such an integral part of the city’s infrastructure. “You can’t help yourself, can you, Image? You have a compulsion to delve around in other people’s heads.”
    “It’s part of my programming. I am designed to attune myself to the needs of the citizenry so that I may better serve them.”
    “Very well. I’ll play your game. As it happens, the Winnower has revealed a fraction of his identity to me already. So far, all of his murders have been committed between chronons four and six, indicating that he lives on blueshift and is playing the Winnower during the time he is supposed to be sleeping.”
    “Unless he is on lifeshift red, and goes out during his socialization time.”
    “I’m aware of that possibility. I’ve already instructed the Scrutators to notify me of any unusual deviation of socialization during those chronons.”
    “Perhaps he is a recently unemployed yellowshifter. Or he could be a quaternary, with no fixed