Wool

by Hugh Howey

Page 22

 

  “Then why am I being held here?” Juliette asked. She realized suddenly that there may be no double cleaning after all. Off to the side, down the hallway, she could see Peter shuffling back and forth like some physical barrier prevented him from coming any closer.

  “Unauthorized entry on the thirty-fourth,” Bernard said. “Threatening a member of the silo, tampering with IT affairs, removing IT property from secured quarters—”

  “That’s ratshit,” Juliette said. “I was summoned by one of your workers. I had every right to be there!”

  “We will look into that,” Bernard said. “Well, Peter here will. I’m afraid he’s had to remove your computer for evidence. My people down below are best qualified to see if—”

  “Your people? Are you trying to be Mayor or IT Head? Because I looked into it, and the Pact clearly states you can’t be both—”

  “That will be put to a vote soon enough. The Pact has changed before. It’s designed to change when events call for it. ”

  “And so you want me out of the way. ” Juliette stepped closer to the bars so she could see Peter Billings, and have him see her. “I suppose you were to have this job all along? Is that right?”

  Peter slunk out of sight.

  “Juliette. Jules. ” Bernard shook his head and clicked his tongue at her. “I don’t want you out of the way. I wouldn’t want that for any member of the silo. I want people to be in their place. Where they fit in. Scottie wasn’t cut out for IT, I see that now. And I don’t think you were meant for the up-top. ”

  “So, what, I’m banished back to Mechanical? Is that what’s going on? Over some ratshit charges?”

  “Banished is such a horrible word. I’m sure you didn’t mean that. And don’t you want your old job back? Weren’t you happier then? There’s so much to learn up here that you’ve never shadowed for. And the people who thought you best fit for this job, who I’m sure hoped to ease you into it…”

  He stopped right there, and it was somehow worse that he left the sentence open like that, forcing Jules to complete the image rather than just hear it. She pictured two mounds of freshly turned soil in the gardens, a few mourning rinds tossed on top of them.

  “I’m going to let you gather your things, what isn’t needed for evidence, and then allow you to see yourself back down. As long as you check in with my deputies on the way and report your progress, we’ll drop these charges. Consider it an extension of my little…forgiveness holiday. ”

  Bernard smiled and straightened his glasses.

  Juliette gritted her teeth. It occurred to her that she had never, in her entire life, punched someone in the face.

  And it was only her fear of missing, of not doing it correctly and cracking her knuckles on one of the steel bars, that prevented her from putting an end to that streak.

  • • • •

  It was just about a week since she had arrived at the up-top, and Juliette was leaving with fewer belongings than she’d brought. A blue Mechanical coverall had been provided, one much too big for her. Peter didn’t even say goodbye. Juliette thought it was more out of shame than anger or blame. He walked her through the cafeteria to the top of the stairs, and as she turned to shake his hand, she found him staring down at his toes, his thumbs caught in his coveralls, her sheriff’s badge pinned at an angle over his left breast.

  Juliette began her long walk down through the length of the silo. It would be less physically taxing than her walk up had been, but more draining in other ways. What exactly had happened to the silo, and why? She couldn’t help but feel in the middle of it all, to shoulder some of the blame. None of this would have happened had they left her in Mechanical, had they never come to see her in the first place. She would still be bitching about the alignment of the generator, not sleeping at night as she waited for the inevitable failure and a descent into chaos as they learned to survive on backup power for the decades it would take to rebuild the thing. Instead, she had been witness to a different type of failure: a throwing not of rods but of bodies. She felt most horrible for poor Scottie, a boy with so much promise, so many talents, taken before his prime.

  She had been sheriff for a short time, a star appearing on her breast for but a wink, and yet she felt an incredible urge to investigate. There was something not right about Scottie killing himself. The signs were there, sure. He had been afraid to leave his office—but then, he’d also shadowed under Walker and had maybe picked up the habit of reclusiveness from the old man. Scottie had also been harboring secrets too big for his young mind, had been fearful enough to wire her to come quickly—but she knew the boy like her own shadow, and knew he didn’t have it in him. She suddenly wondered if Marnes had ever had it in him as well. If Jahns were here beside her, would the old Mayor be screaming for Jules to investigate both their deaths? Telling her that none of this fit?

  “I can’t,” Juliette whispered to the ghost, causing an upbound porter to turn his head as he passed.

  She kept further thoughts to herself. As she descended toward her father’s nursery, she paused at the landing, contemplating longer and harder about going in to see him than she had on her way up. Pride had prevented her the first time. And now shame set her feet into motion once again, spiraling down away from him, chastising herself for thinking on the ghosts from her past that had long ago been banished from memory.

  At the thirty-fourth, the entrance to IT, she again considered stopping. There would be clues in Scottie’s office, maybe even some they hadn’t managed to scrub away. She shook her head. The conspiracies were already forming in her mind. And as hard as it was to leave the scene of the crime behind, she knew she wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near his office.

  She continued down the staircase and thought, as she considered IT’s location in the silo, that this couldn’t be an accident either. She had another thirty-two floors to go before she checked in with the first deputy, who was located near the center of the mids. The sheriff’s office was thirty-three floors above her head. IT, then, was as far as it could get from any deputy station in the silo.

  She shook her head at this paranoid thinking. It wasn’t how diagnoses were made. Her father would have told her so.

  After meeting with the first deputy around noon, and accepting a piece of bread and fruit, along with a reminder to eat, she made good time down through the mids, wondering as she passed the upper apartments which level Lukas lived on, or if he even knew of her arrest.

  The weight of the past week seemed to pull her down the stairwell, gravity sucking at her boots, the pressures of being sheriff dissipating as she left that office far behind. Those pressures were slowly replaced with an eagerness to return to her friends, even in shame, as she got closer and closer to Mechanical.

  She stopped to see Hank, the down deep deputy, on level one-twenty. She had known him for a long time, was becoming more and more surrounded with familiar faces, people who waved hello, their moods somber as if they knew every detail of her time away. Hank tried to get her to stay and rest a while, but she only paused long enough to be polite, to refill her canteen, and then to shuffle the remaining twenty floors to the place she truly belonged.

  Knox seemed thrilled to have her back. He wrapped her up in a crippling hug, lifting her feet off the ground and roughing up her face with his beard. He smelled of grease and sweat, a mix Juliette had never fully noticed in the down deep because she had never been free from it.

  The walk to her old room was punctuated by slaps on her back, well-wishes, questions about the up-top, people calling her sheriff in jest, and the sort of rude frivolities she had grown up in and grown used to. Juliette felt more saddened by it all than anything. She had set out to do something and had failed. And yet her friends were just happy to have her back.

  Shirly from second shift spotted her coming down the hallway and accompanied Juliette on the rest of the walk to her room. She updated Juliette on the status
of the generator and the output from the new oil well, as if Juliette had simply been on vacation for a short while. Juliette thanked her at the door to her room, stepped inside, and kicked her way through all the folded notes slipped under the door. She lifted the strap of her daypack over her head and dropped it, then collapsed onto her bed, too exhausted and upset at herself to even cry.

  She awoke in the middle of the night. Her small display terminal showed the time in green blocky numbers: 2:14 AM.

  Juliette sat at the edge of her old bed in coveralls that weren’t truly hers and took stock of her situation. Her life was not yet over, she decided. It just felt that way. Tomorrow, even if they didn’t expect her to, she would be back at work in the pits, keeping the silo humming, doing what she did best. She needed to wake up to this reality, to set other ideas and responsibilities aside. Already, they felt so far away. She doubted she would even go to Scottie’s funeral, not unless they sent his body down to be buried where it belonged.

  She reached for the keyboard slotted into the wall rack. Everything was covered in a layer of grime, she saw. She had never noticed it before. The keys were filthy from the dirt she had brought back from each shift. The monitor’s glass was limned with grease. She fought the urge to wipe the screen and smear the shiny coat of oil around, but she would have to clean her place a little deeper, she decided. She was viewing things with untainted and more critical eyes.

  Rather than chase pointless sleep, she keyed the monitor awake to check the work logs for the next day, anything to get her mind off the past week. But before she could open her task manager, she saw that she had over a dozen wires in her inbox. She’d never seen so many. Usually people just slid recycled notes under each other’s doors—but then, she had been a long way away when the news of her arrest had hit, and she hadn’t been able to get to a computer since.

  She logged onto her email account and pulled up the most recent wire. It was from Knox. Just a semicolon and a parenthesis—a half-chit smile.

  Juliette couldn’t help it; she smiled back. She could still smell Knox on her skin and realized, as far as the big brute was concerned, that all the troubles and problems percolating in whispers down the stairwell about her paled in comparison to her return. To him, the worst thing that had happened in the last week was probably the challenge of replacing her on first shift.

  Jules went to the next message, one from the third shift foreman, welcoming her home. Probably because of the extra time his crew was putting in to help cover her old shift.

  There was more. A day’s pay of a note from Shirly, wishing her well on her journey. These were all notes they had hoped she would receive up-top to make the trip down easier, hoping she wouldn’t loathe herself and would know she shouldn’t feel humiliated, or even a failure. Juliette felt tears well up at how considerate it all was. She had an image of her desk, Holston’s desk, with nothing but unplugged wires snaking across its surface, her computer removed. There was no way she could’ve gotten these messages when they were meant to be read. She wiped at her eyes and tried not to think of the wired notes as money wasted, but rather as extravagant tokens of her friendships in the down deep.

  Reading each one, trying to hold it together, made the last message she came to doubly jarring. It was paragraphs long. Juliette assumed it was an official document, maybe a list of her offenses, a formal ruling against her. She had only seen such messages from the Mayor’s office, usually on holidays, notes that went out to every silo member. But then she saw that it was from Scottie.

  Juliette sat up straight and tried to clear her head. She started from the beginning, damning her blurred vision.

  J-

  I lied. Couldn’t delete this stuff. Found more. That tape I got you? Your joke was truth. And the program - NOT for big screen. Pxl density not right. 32,768 X 8,192! Not sure what’s that size. 8” X 2”? So many pxls if so.

  Putting more together. Don’t trust porters, so wiring this. Screw cost, wire me back. Need transfr to Mech. Not safe here.

  -S

  Juliette read it a second time, crying now. Here was the real voice of a ghost warning her of something, all of it too late. And it wasn’t the voice of one who was planning his death—she was sure of that. She checked the timestamp of the wire; it was sent before she had even arrived back at her office the day before, before Scottie had died.

  Before he had been killed, she corrected herself. They must have found him snooping, or maybe her visit had alerted them. She wondered what IT could see, if they could break into her wire account, even. They must not have yet, or the message wouldn’t be there, waiting for her.

  She leapt suddenly from her bed and grabbed one of the folded notes by the door. Digging a charcoal from her daypack, she sat back down on the bed. She copied the entire wire, every odd spelling, double-checking each number, and then deleted the message. She had chills up and down her arms by the time she finished, as if some unseen person was racing toward her, hoping to break into her computer before she dispensed with the evidence. She wondered if Scottie had been cautious enough to have deleted the note from his sent wires, and assumed, if he’d been thinking clearly, that he would.

  She sat back on her bed, holding the copied note, thoughts about the work log for the next day gone. Instead, she studied the sinister mess revolving around her, spiraling through the heart of the silo. Things were bad, from top to bottom. A great set of gears had been thrown out of alignment. She could hear the noise from the past week, this thumping and clanging, this machine lumbering off its mounts and leaving bodies in its wake.

  And Juliette was the only one who could hear it. She was the only one who knew. And she didn’t know whom she could trust to help set things right. But she did know this: It would require a diminishing of power to align things once again. And there would be no way to call what happened next a “holiday. ”