by RF Hurteau
"What are you doing with those trays?"
"Oh, these?" Felix said with a shrug. "Lub said to take them with me. Did you know they aren't supposed to leave the commissary?"
When they reached the main lobby, they passed the Information desk, where a slight woman in a sharp uniform was shouting into her comm. “No, no, no, that won’t work either!” she was saying, offering them a curt nod before returning to the obviously heated discussion.
“Think I should tell her about the rats?” suggested Felix in a whisper.
Ripley looked at the woman, who seemed close to tears, clutching a large handful of her chestnut ringlets as if preparing to rip them out. “I don’t think you should bother her, no.”
They exited the building and entered a sea of people bustling about, helping with preparations for the Anniversary celebration, the bulk of which took place here, in D1. The lack of housing in this dome left a lot of open space, which formed what was quaintly referred to as the city square. Two men were configuring a speaking platform to the right of Sigil's steps, and an Theran woman was festooning the podium with strings of garland and flowers. The pleasant floral scent permeated the air, the rarity of them adding an exotic appeal, and their vibrant colors were a welcome change from the otherwise bleak, grey concrete expanse. Flowers for flowers’ sake were not deemed important enough to grow in their limited space. But once a year, several varieties of medicinal flowering plants were used for decoration. After the ceremonies, they would be carefully collected, properly dried, and used for something more practical. In Sanctuary, nothing was wasted. They had reclamation facilities for everything from paper to electronics. In a closed society, waste was something that could not be tolerated.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, taking in the preparations. Everyone looked cheerful, excited. For many, this was the best time of the year. There would be speeches, games, and a whole feast that all the citizens of Sanctuary were invited to enjoy, which was a big deal, since the rest of the year, food was strictly rationed. There was always enough, but just barely. A little bit of overindulgence once a year was just the thing to warm the hearts and bellies of the people.
Ripley wondered why he, too, couldn't just enjoy the celebration. Everyone in Sanctuary had been born here, after all. Whole generations had lived and died here. He'd never known the outside world, before Sanctuary. So, what was it that made him feel depressed about something that had never been his to miss in the first place?
"I'm going to catch the Tube and head home," he said, thinking about a shower and a nap. Nothing made the time go by faster than good old-fashioned unconsciousness.
Felix looked crestfallen. "Wish we could hang out, like we used to. Living at Sigil six days a week has really put a damper on my social life, you know? Do you want to come have dinner with me and Willow?"
Ripley shook his head. "I'm sorry. Soon, though."
He had to smile thinking back on the last time all three of them had been together. Willow had insisted on preparing a traditional Human dish that she had learned about during her studies on ancient Human culture. It had been Ripley’s thirtieth birthday, and she’d wanted it to be a special occasion. She had spent days agonizing over the meal, which she had called “Mac and Cheese.” Unfortunately, the result had been—quite literally—hard to swallow. She had been so nervous about getting it right that she had forgotten to take into account the fact that almost none of the ingredients existed within Sanctuary’s culinary means. In a stubborn, but panicked, determination, she had made what she deemed to be suitable substitutes. The macaroni, which existed only in history books, had been replaced by cauliflower. They did have several types of cheese, but when Willow tried to melt it into a sauce, it had resulted in a lumpy, fragmented goop with bits of burnt crust on the bottom. Apparently, the cheese of yonder days had not been made from the milk of goats fed on a synthetically prepared fodder of nutrients and vitamins.
Ripley and Felix had been unable to hide their revulsion, though he had made a valiant effort to do so. He remembered how she had burst into tears at the table, and then, almost immediately, how they had all begun laughing together over the absurdity of her reaction.
Ripley cherished those times with his friends. Willow was a joy to be around, a free spirit with a gentle soul, always both wise and comforting. Felix exuded a light-heartedness that Ripley could never dream of duplicating, though he always felt more relaxed when his friend was around. He added something to Ripley’s life, something intangible and hard to describe. Felix and Willow had overcome quite a bit on their quest for happiness, and he admired their ability to laugh so freely and love so deeply. But he was not sure that laughter was what he needed right now, or what he wanted. Mostly, he just wanted to be alone.
Felix looked sulky now, scuffing his feet and slouching. A head taller than Ripley, with long legs and a lithe figure, Felix could easily pass for a full-blooded Theran at first glance. His pointed ears peeked out from beneath his curly hair. It was this feature, so reminiscent of ancient fairytales, that had led to the widespread adoption of the nickname Elves in reference to the Theran people. Too bad, Ripley thought with a pang, that his looks don’t matter to the Council. It was hard to look at Felix without thinking about the harsh reality he faced on a daily basis. The Council did not care if Felix looked like an Elf, it was only what’s inside that counted. Literally. Felix and the hundred or so Halfsies like him would never be considered more than second-class citizens. The only thing the Council likely hated worse than a Halfsie were the Elves that bore them. Blood traitors.
Ripley realized he was sinking himself into a fouler mood by the second, and tried to focus on their surroundings. They had just reached Sigil Station and placed their wrists under the chip scanner. All Sanctuary citizens received a microchip at birth. They were updated as necessary and functioned as both identification and to streamline transactions. The Sigil insignia flashed on the Gate guard's monitor and he waved them through to the platform.
The Tube was Sanctuary's only mechanical transportation system, connecting each of the six biospheres that made up Sanctuary. The domes were arranged in a ring, and the Tube system ran through the heart of each, branching out in wide loops to several smaller stations located on the outskirts of the domes. There was D1—it housed Sigil, which functioned as both the governing body of Sanctuary and its operations center. Sigil employees handled everything from security to education and research. D2 housed all agriculture and was where all food was grown and stored. This was the only dome that had only the one, central Tube station. Because food was so strictly rationed, Sigil deemed it very important that no unauthorized personnel should have unfettered access to the Agridome. Besides school field trips, where the students were flanked by Security guards, few people outside of the Agricultural employees were ever allowed entry.
D3, D4, and D5 housed most of the populace, one for Therans, and two for Humans. Mixed families, like Felix's, had carved out a small community for themselves in D4, one of the Human domes. The Elves frowned on intermarriage with Humans, and Humans resented the lack of opportunities afforded them to acquire important positions. Halfsies, the common term for people like Felix, were the byproduct of this taboo union. They bore the brunt of the prejudice from both sides, and for the most part just tried to keep their heads down. Felix had never seemed to let his status bother him, though, beyond the occasional self-deprecating joke. Ripley admired that.
The last dome, D6, was inaccessible. It had suffered some kind of catastrophic failure during the building stage and sat, unfinished and forgotten. Ripley would often stare at the windowless hull of the Tube as they travelled the slightly longer distance between D1 and D5, wondering what the wreckage of D6 would look like if he could see it. He imagined it was quite similar to the rest of the city, except perhaps that it wouldn’t have many buildings. All six domes had been built to identical specifications, one of mankind’s most impressive endeavors—especially considering the cir
cumstances that surrounded their construction. It was only what was in each dome that was different. D1 had always been Ripley’s favorite. It wasn’t so much because of Sigil, as Ripley had never had particularly strong feelings towards Sigil. Rather, it was the openness of the layout. D1 contained neither market nor housing. It only held Sigil’s sprawling campus. And although that campus was home to over one hundred separate departments, there was still plenty of room to spare. The rest of the dome was used for special occasions, like the Anniversary each year. On an average day, people from all over Sanctuary could be seen there, strolling along the long, meandering pathways.
Of course, there wasn’t much in the way of scenery. Because of the unique location of Sanctuary in the Antarctic region, it had been built directly on solid ground, not atop the thick layer of ice that covered most of the continent. Theoretically, Ripley knew that this meant they might have given the domes real earthen ground. It might have taken more energy to maintain the temperature, but it would have been possible. And besides, their energy reserves were virtually unlimited. The city sat in the shadow of Mount Erebus, an active volcano from which they drew the heat that powered the underground Geothermal Plant. But the domes had needed to be sealed, so instead of dirt and trees and grass, the people of Sanctuary had only endless slabs of concrete and steel. Even D2, where their food was grown, utilized an aquaponic system rather than soil. The grey landscape was dull, but familiar. Five generations of citizens separated Ripley from the last time anyone ran in a field or climbed a tree.
A thick cloud rolled into his vision, disrupting his train of thought. He cast a sidelong glance at Felix and raised an eyebrow. "You aren't supposed to be doing that on the Tube. You're going to get us in trouble."
Felix took another long draw off the mouthpiece of a small, pen-like device, blowing out another sweet-smelling cloud. "It's fine," he said, even as he drew the disapproving stares of some of the other passengers.
"It's not fine, you're going to set off the sensors with all that smoke in this tiny space."
"It's not smoke," Felix retorted. "It's vapor. Lighten up. Oh, hey, that reminds me, I heard this great joke the other day. A Human, an Elf, and a Halfsie walk into a bar. The Human says, ‘Give me something with a little zip to it.’ The Elf says, ‘Is this place certified by the Sigil Committee on Food and Drink?’ And the Halfsie, he looks right at the bartender and says—"
He was interrupted by a red light at the front of the car which had begun flashing. "Please be aware," droned a cool female voice from the speakers. "There is smoke in car three. Remain calm. A Tube Official has been dispatched."
Felix made a frantic attempt to dissipate the clouds by waving his hands around, and Ripley rolled his eyes. "I told you," he muttered, shrinking down in his chair as an angry-looking Tube Official strode through the door connecting the cars.
"But it's vapor!" Felix insisted weakly, still flailing his arms.
two
A Dish Best Served Cold
No, no, no, that won’t work either!” Sylvia exclaimed again, exasperated. She nodded at a couple of passing workers heading out into the courtyard, listening to the man on the line give her his proposal for the hundredth time. “We can’t have swarms of people in and out of Sigil during the celebration without extra security procedures. Don’t you remember what happened last time? And last year, last year was only school children!” He continued droning on about how important it was to let the public see the government in action. He kept saying idiotic things like “builds trust” and “establishes strong community ties.”
“And how, do you suppose,” she tried to explain once again, resting her head in her palm and massaging her temples, “we are to show the people their government in action, when most of the employees will be at the celebration? Not to mention that the remainder will be scrambling wildly to keep the whole place up and running!” A small but growing headache had taken root behind her eyes, made worse by the uncooperative nature of the man on the comm.
This wasn’t going to work. He just wasn’t listening. “You know what?” she said at last, eager to be done with this conversation, “I’m going to transfer you to Security. You can work out the details with them.” She pressed a button and the line went blissfully silent.
As Director of Sigil’s Public Relations department, Sylvia had been in charge of coordinating Sigil’s role in the Anniversary celebrations for the last five years. It had never been anywhere near as stressful as the last few weeks. Sanctuary would be celebrating its one hundred twenty-fifth birthday in just a few days, and apparently everyone thought that it should be a much bigger deal than in prior years. She shuddered to think what it would have been like to organize the event twenty-five years ago, for the centennial celebrations.
The main problem as far as Sylvia was concerned, was that she had been given the authority to make executive decisions, but had not been given the manpower to follow through. Sylvia knew from experience that any success would be attributed to Sigil as a whole—and any failure would fall squarely on her shoulders. She sighed heavily, letting her head fall back and clapping her hands over her face to shut out the rest of the world, if only for a moment.
“Oh, come now, Sylvia, it can’t be as bad as all that.”
She raised her head and peered through her fingers at the friendly, familiar face of Edwin Smalls, Chief Human Liaison to the Elder Council. He was standing across the counter from her, his prominent jaw accentuated by a wide smile that was reflected in his steely grey eyes.
“Maybe you’d like to have a go at planning the biggest disaster Sanctuary has ever seen?” she suggested, her eyes pleading.
“Sorry,” he replied, “a bit busy at the moment.”
She nodded. “Yeah, funny. That’s what everyone keeps saying when I ask.”
Edwin laughed, smoothing the front of his shirt as he pushed a piece of paper across the desk to her. “Here you are. I know it’s a bit last minute…the Council has really thrown us for a loop with this one. A list of speakers for your approval.”
She raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I’ve never had to approve the speakers before. The Council decides which of them will speak and about what. That’s well outside my jurisdiction.” She glanced down at the list, scanning the names. “Wait, these aren’t Council members,” she added, confused.
Edwin nodded, his face more serious than before. “No. Of course we have no say in the Council’s decisions. They asked me to make a list of potential department members who could talk a little about what they do, and such. Hoping it might inspire confidence, I guess? Anyway, I thought these were pretty safe options.”
She scanned the names, nodding. “Nelson Boggs, Core Operations. Nathaniel Saugus, Reclamation…oh, wait, Felix, Observatory.” She glanced around Edwin, looking toward the door. “I think I just saw him leaving. Anyway,” she went back to the list and finished looking over the rest of the names. “This looks fine, I guess. I think I’d take Felix off. I mean, what does the Observatory Attendant even do?”
Edwin shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s why I thought it might be interesting to find out.”
“Well, you find out on your own time. Speeches during the celebrations aren’t supposed to be about new, interesting tidbits. They’re supposed to be about dull, comforting facts. Maybe get someone from Agriculture and Livestock to talk about the food supply. Hmm…Denton Murphy, Security,” she read, biting her lip. “I’m not sure about him, either. He seems a bit…um…intense.”
“That’s a very diplomatic word for it,” Edwin replied, his mouth curving into a reassuring smile. “But if you think it’s a bad idea, I defer to your judgment. I thought people might like to know a bit more about how we work to keep them safe.”
Sylvia thought about it for a moment, and nodded. “I think you should have someone from Security. But maybe someone a little less, ah…” she searched for another diplomatic word, “biased? Better pick someone fast though, they aren’t going to have
a lot of time for speechwriting with just one more day before the celebration.” She groaned. “Ugh, just one more day! I have to get back to work!”
“Yes ma’am,” said Edwin, offering a little salute. “Leave it to me!” He started to turn.
“Where are you off to?” she called after his receding form. Despite her insistence that she needed to work, she had still enjoyed the brief respite from reality that his visit had offered. He did not pause as he continued across the gleaming white floor of the large, opulent lobby.
“There was another closed-door Elder Council meeting last night,” he replied, over his shoulder. “I’m supposed to be briefed on the details in five minutes, and you know how Elves value punctuality. Gotta run!” And with that, he was gone.
She envied Edwin from time to time. He was the highest ranking Human in Sigil, and yet he always seemed so together, so on top of things. He always had a smile on his face when they spoke, and somehow managed to avoid the constant stress that Sylvia’s own job heaped on her in droves. Was it her? Was she making things more difficult than they needed to be?
No, she decided. Rank doesn’t necessarily equal responsibility. Edwin’s job was to be the Human face of the completely Theran Elder Council, the ruling authority. He had to stand around and look pretty and regurgitate their sessions as something more digestible for the people who worked under them. Sylvia, on the other hand, had to be the Human face of Sigil itself, offering assurances to ten thousand Sanctuary citizens that all was well. As such, she needed to be familiar with the inner workings of Sigil, and comfortable enough to be able to speak about them when needed.
There were one hundred twelve departments in Sigil, twelve of which comprised the schooling facilities. There were the obviously important ones, such as Core Operations, the Geothermal Plant, and Reclamation, without which the city would fall. But there were dozens of lesser known departments that kept things running smoothly. Food services, for instance, or Accounting. No one ever asked to hear about Accounting, of course, and she certainly didn’t blame them. But a self-sustaining city was still a city, and people still worked on a monetary payment system. Sylvia had no idea what the value of credits was based on, or how many were circulating back and forth between Sanctuary’s citizens. She guessed that was why she wasn’t an Accountant. She was the head of Public Relations, the smiling face that made Sigil accessible to the common man. Absent-mindedly, she tried to force her face into a smile. She failed.