The Gift
The pale light of the few yellowish patches was lost in the black sky, which began a couple of metres above the ground. The buildings floated in a dense, leaden fog, stained here and there by the faded yellow of dimly lit windows.
4729, first name Don, was clutching feverishly to his chest the “gift” into which he had put every one of his savings and the next month’s advance. His short, quick steps rang out on the dry pavement, broken in places, its holes filled with a fine, dirty dust. For four years, like a ritual repeating itself identically, he had walked the same road every day: home — work — home; and again, and again… in an obsessive succession without hope.
Born and raised in Subpolis, at fifteen he had earned the right to go out and work on the surface. He had been assigned to the relatively new city of Gorgon, raised a few years after the last geophysical war, which had shaken — not only figuratively but literally — the entire planet. Over ninety per cent of the continents vanished then, because the four superpowers had underestimated the terrifying efficiency of the new “clean” weapons.
Don belonged to the first generation born in the subpolises. His mother had died giving birth to him, and his father had followed her not two years later; a more sensitive nature, he had not been able to adapt to living underground. The rare official excursions organised to the surface, where complete darkness reigned because of the immense quantities of particles suspended in what had once been called the atmosphere, had not helped him much. Left alone, Don had suffered a great deal, his only hope lying in the world “outside”.
The city — more a fortress, with massive walls over fifty metres high and cubic buildings fitted with huge canopies against the destroying dust hurricanes — had been built by the “Sold” company, sole owner of a lunar orbital station.
Favoured by a sturdier constitution, Don had managed to get taken on at the company’s copper works. A year ago he had married Farmi, and any day now their first child was due. He was certain it would be a boy; he had wanted one far too much, and a boy could survive more easily.
He had thought for a long time about a surprise, a gift, for Farmi and the child to come. They had no other relatives. Few were willing to give birth naturally, since it took a worker out of production for months on end. The low birth rate, influenced also by a general state of mind that recoiled from the idea of procreation in the face of a bleak, uncertain future, far from the light of the sun, had led — within the limits of the available technology — to births in “test tubes”, which was how his own wife had been born.
He had found it hard to decide on a child. Only her insistence had brought him to that hazardous decision. She wanted a child that would be hers alone, theirs, and not one belonging to the whole community, as she had been. In the case of natural children, until the age of ten they belonged to the parents only. Afterwards they were taken over and trained according to the interests of the community, which lately coincided rather closely with those of the Company. It was not merely an impression; the Company was everything. Without it, the city would not have survived, or would have remained a savage polis, like so many others. It did not do a great deal for them, but it did something. The “gift”, too, he had procured from the Company.
He walked quickly along the black walls, thinking of those at home, present and yet to come. A shadow detached itself from an alleyway, followed by a second. A metal blade flashed briefly. Deflected by the metal box held tight against his chest, the knife sank deep into his shoulder. He slipped and fell, striking his head against the edge of the stone wall. The box slid from his chest; with a dull, metallic sound, it touched the pavement.
—That’s it, whispered one of the shadows. The boss said it’s worth over two thousand solini. Probably jewellery or drugs. It’s heavy enough.
—Let’s clear off before somebody comes. I reckon this one’s a goner. Drag him into the alley, so he isn’t found too soon. Give me the box! What can be in it? It’s metal, and the lock is simple enough for me. I’ve seen these before, but never opened one; they belong to the Company.
—If it’s heavy and stays a little heavier, do you think anyone would notice? The boss didn’t know exactly what’s inside; somebody sold him the tip, someone who only knew what the contents cost first-hand.
—A notion worth considering. Let’s cut across the wasteland. What are you doing over there?
—Looking for his wallet, but he hasn’t got one. He’s covered in blood; come on, let’s go.
The wind was blowing harder and harder. The dull pain seemed to come from everywhere at once. One sharper movement, and a lightning bolt of pain ran through his body and drove itself into his brain. He was beginning to come round. The wounds in his shoulder and his head were bleeding freely. He was alone, in the small recess of the wall’s buttress. He tried to stop the bleeding with his handkerchief and the tail of his shirt. Still unclear, his thoughts struggled beneath the merciless weight of pain, of body and of soul.
—The box?! The thought burst out, rooted deep in his subconscious. A single word, and his lucidity came back to him. His hopes and his efforts, destroyed in an instant.
—It can’t be… he murmured to himself, forgetting the pain. It isn’t possible… Why me… Why?!
He got up with great difficulty, every movement demanding immense effort. He tried to bandage his head as well, but his left hand no longer obeyed him.
—Why me…?! He contented himself with wiping the blood from his face.
He pressed his hand to the wound in his shoulder. He did not want to frighten his wife, but he had to get home. Nobody would help him in the street; he knew that. Well-meaning people could find themselves accused, and the bureaucracy was dreadful. His eyes slid along the walls and the unevenness of the road, within the narrow limits of visibility; he was looking for a shadow, a glint, anything to show him that he had not lost the gift for good. He hoped in vain. Reason told him plainly that the thieves would not have thrown the box away before opening it, and once they had, everything would be lost.
God, he thought, does not exist, if He has allowed such a thing to happen.
Weakness was taking hold of him. He stopped many times along the way, propped against the wall. He arrived at last. He climbed the stairs with his body and his soul crushed. He wiped some of the blood away, so as not to frighten them. Exhausted, he rang the bell. He had wanted to give them a pleasant surprise; now the surprise was a man covered in blood. His tears washed the crust of blood that had begun to congeal. A din of voices came through the door of his flat. Something had happened.
The pale grey light spilled out of the room as his neighbour appeared in the doorway.
—Congratulations, Don. You have a fine plump boy. He was born an hour ago. But what has happened to you?
A tremor ran through him, easing his pain somehow. A boy. A chance for his family to survive. Forgetting how he looked, he rushed into the next room where Farmi lay in bed, the newborn at her breast, the neighbour’s wife beside her.
—Are you both all right? he stammered, not knowing what to say.
—Yes, so far yes. But what has happened to you? her voice rang out sharply.
—Nothing serious. I fell and knocked myself about a little, he said, not wanting to frighten her at such a moment. The neighbour will help me with the bandages. Rest quietly until I come back. He would have liked to stay with the child, but he could no longer keep on his feet. I am a little tired, he murmured.
—And I am rather tired too. I waited for you, but now I can rest. Not before we tell you about the “miracle”, though.
—What miracle?
—You should have seen it… Just as I gave birth and our neighbour put the child in my arms, a ray of sunlight — a real one — came into the house through the window, from the direction of the wasteland, was reflected in the mirror and wrapped our little one in living light. It was unbelievable. A sign that his fate may not be like ours, that he may yet see the true sun shining.
He could not believe it. Astonished, Don thought of the box with the photono-gravific captor that had been stolen from him. It held a ray of sunlight. Only one; he had not been able to afford more. It came from the Company’s orbital station. A real ray, for his child, which, once released, would vanish into the eternal night of Terra. His ray had left the mark of hope upon his son’s face.
And yet He does exist, he reproached himself.
George Gh. Rogoz