by Hugh Howey
The two of them fell into a rhythmic pace, the reach of each foot hovering over the next tread, a sort of collapsing of the bones, a resignation to gravity, falling to that foot, sliding the hand, reaching the walking stick forward, repeat. Doubt crept into Jahns around the thirtieth floor. What seemed a fine adventure at sunrise now seemed a mighty undertaking. Each step was performed reluctantly, knowing how grueling it would be to win that elevation back.
They passed the upper water treatment plant on thirty two, and Jahns realized she was seeing portions of the silo that were practically new to her. It had been a lifetime ago that she’d been this deep, a shameful thing to admit. And in that time, changes had been made. Construction and repair were ongoing. Walls were a different color than she remembered. But then, it was hard to trust one’s memory.
The traffic on the stairs lightened as they neared the IT floors. Here were the most sparsely populated levels of the silo, where less than two dozen men and women—but mostly men—operated within their own little kingdom. The silo servers took up almost an entire floor, the machines slowly rebuilding with recent history, having been wiped completely during the uprising. Access to them was now severely restricted, and as Jahns passed the landing on the thirty third, she swore she could hear the mighty thrumming of all the electricity they consumed. Whatever the silo had been, or had been designed for, she knew without asking or being told that these strange machines were some organ of primacy. Their power draw was a constant source of contention during budget meetings. But the necessity of the cleaning, the fear of even talking about the outside and all the dangerous taboos that went with it, gave IT incredible leeway. They housed the labs that made the suits, each one tailored to the person waiting in the holding cell, and this alone set them apart from all else.
No, Jahns told herself, it wasn’t simply the taboo of the cleaning, the fear of the outside. It was the hope. There was this unspoken, deadly hope in every member of the silo. A ridiculous, fantastical hope. That maybe not for them, but perhaps for their children, or their children’s children, that life on the outside would be possible once again, and that it would be the work of IT and the bulky suits that emerged from their labs that would make it all possible.
Jahns felt a shiver even to think it. Living outside. The childhood conditioning was that strong. Maybe God would hear her thoughts and rat her out. She imagined herself in a cleaning suit, a far too common visual, placing herself into the flexible coffin into which she had condemned so many—
On the thirty-fourth, she slipped off onto the landing. Marnes joined her, his canteen in hand. Jahns realized she’d been drinking out of his all day while hers stayed strapped to her back. There was something childlike and romantic about this, but also something practical. It was more difficult to reach one’s own water than it was to grab that of the other from their pack.
“You need a break?” He passed the canteen, which had but two swallows left in it. Jahns took one of them.
“This is our next stop,” she said.
Marnes looked up at the faded number stenciled over the doorway. He had to know what floor they were on, but it was as if he needed to double check.
Jahns returned his canteen. “In the past, I’ve always wired them to get the okay on my nominations. It was something Mayor Humphries did before me, and Mayor Jeffers before him.” She shrugged. “Way of the world.”
“I didn’t know they had to approve.” He took the last swallow and patted Jahns on the back, twirled his finger for her to turn around.
“Well, they’ve never rejected any of my nominations—” Jahns felt her canteen tugged out of her pouch, Marnes’ canteen shoved in its place. Her pack felt a smidgen lighter. She realized Marnes wanted to carry her water and share it until it too was empty. “I think the unwritten rule is there just so we’ll carefully consider every judge and lawman, knowing there’s some informal oversight.”
“So this time you’re doing it in person.”
She turned back around to face her deputy. “I figured we were passing this way—” She paused while a young couple hurried up the stairs behind Marnes, holding hands and taking the treads two at a time. “And that it might feel even more conspicuous to not stop and check in.”
“Check in,” Marnes said. Jahns half expected him to spit over the railing—the tone seemed to require such punctuation. She suddenly felt another of her weaknesses exposed.
“Think of it as a goodwill mission,” she said, turning toward the door.
“I’m gonna think of it as a fact-finding raid,” Marnes muttered, following her.
••••
Unlike at the nursery, Jahns could tell that they would not be buzzed through and sent back into the mysterious depths of IT. While they waited to be seen, she watched as even a member of the staff, identifiable from their red coveralls, was patted down and searched just to leave the wing and exit toward the stairs. A man with a wand—like Terry, a member of IT’s own internal security detail—seemed to have the job of checking everyone who passed through the metal gates. The receptionist on the outside of the gates was deferent enough and seemed pleased to have the Mayor for a visit. She expressed her condolences for the recent cleaning, an odd thing to say but something Jahns wished she heard more often. They were shown to a small conference room attached to the main foyer, a place, she supposed, for meeting with various departments without putting them through the hassle of passing through security.
“Look at all this space,” Marnes whispered, once they were alone in the room together. “Did you see the size of that entrance hall?”
Jahns nodded. She looked around the ceiling and walls for some peephole, something to confirm the creepy sensation that she was being watched. She set her bag and walking stick down and collapsed wearily into one of the plush chairs. When it moved, she realized the thing was on wheels. Nicely oiled wheels.
“Always wanted to check this place out,” Marnes said. He peered through the glass window that looked back into the wide foyer. “Every time I’ve passed this place—and it’s only been a dozen times or so—I’ve been curious to see what’s inside.”
Jahns nearly asked him to stop talking, but worried that it would hurt his feelings.
“Boy, he’s coming in a hurry. Must be because of you.”
Jahns turned and looked out the window to see Bernard Holland heading their way. He disappeared from view as he approached the door, the handle flicked down, and the small man whose job it was to keep IT running smoothly strode into the room.
“Mayor.”
Bernard was all teeth, the front ones crooked. He reached for Jahns’ hand as she rose from the chair, the blasted thing nearly scooting out from underneath her as she pressed down on the arm rests.
“Careful,” Bernard said, grabbing her elbow to steady her. “Deputy.” He nodded toward Marnes while Jahns steadied herself. “It’s an honor to have you down. I know you don’t take these trips often.”
“Thanks for seeing us on short notice,” Jahns said.
“Of course. Please, make yourselves comfortable.” He swept his hand over the lacquered conference table. It was nicer than the one in the Mayor’s office, though Jahns assuaged herself by assuming it was shiny from being less frequently employed. She sat, approaching the chair warily, then reached into her bag and produced the set of files.
“Straight to business, as always,” Bernard said, sitting beside her. He pushed his glasses up his nose and glided forward on the chair until his plump little belly met the desk. “Always appreciated that about you. We are, as you can imagine with yesterday’s unfortunate events, as busy as ever. Lots of data to go through.”
“How’s that going?” Jahns asked, while she arranged the material in front of her.
“Some positives and negatives, as always. Readouts from some of the seal sensors showed improvement. Atmospheric levels of eight of the known toxins have declined, though not by much. Two have risen. Most have remained unchanged.” He wave
d his hand. “It’s a lot of boring technical stuff, but it’ll all be in my report. I should have it ported up before you get back to your office.”
“That’ll be fine,” Jahns said. She wanted to say something else, to acknowledge his department’s hard work, to let him know that another cleaning had been successful, God knew why. But it was Holston out there, the closest thing she’d ever had to a shadow, the only man she ever saw running for her office when she was dead and feeding the roots of the fruit trees. It was too soon to mention it, much less applaud it.
“I normally wire this sort of thing to you,” she said, “but since we were passing by, and you won’t be up for the next committee meeting for, what, another three months?”
“The years go fast,” Bernard said.
“I just figured we could informally agree to this now, so I could offer our best candidate the job.” She glanced up at Marnes. “Once she accepts, we can finish the paperwork on our way back up, if you don’t mind.” She slid the folder toward Bernard, and was surprised when he produced one of his own, rather than accept hers.
“Well, let’s go over this,” Bernard said. He opened his folder, licked his thumb, and flipped through a few pieces of high quality paper. “We were wired about your visit, but your list of candidates didn’t hit my desk until this morning. Otherwise, I would have tried to save you the trip down and back up.” He pulled out a piece of paper devoid of creases. It didn’t even look bleached. Jahns wondered where IT got such things while her office was held together with cornstarch paste. “I’m thinking, of the three names listed here, that Billings is our man.”
“We may consider him next—” Deputy Marnes started to say.
“I think we should consider him now.” He slid the paper toward Jahns. It was an acceptance contract. There were signatures at the bottom. One line was left blank, the Mayor’s name neatly printed underneath.
She had to catch her breath.
“You’ve already contacted Peter about this?”
“He accepted. The judge’s robe was going to be a little stifling for him, being so young and full of energy. I thought he was a fine choice for that role, but I think he’s an even better one now for the job of sheriff.”
Jahns remembered Peter’s nomination process. It had been one of the times she’d gone along with Bernard’s suggestion, seeing it as a trade for a future pick of her own. She studied the signature, Peter’s hand familiar from his various notes sent up on behalf of Judge Wilson. She imagined one of the porters who had flown past them on the steps that day, apologizing as they went, rushing this very piece of paper down.
“I’m afraid Peter is currently third on our list,” Mayor Jahns finally said. Her voice suddenly felt tired. It sounded frail and weak in the cavernous and wasteful space of that underused and outsized conference room. She looked up at Marnes, who was glaring at the contract, his jaw clenching and unclenching.
“Well, I think we both know Donald’s name is on this list for flattery. He’s too old for the job—”
“Younger than me,” Marnes spat. “I hold up just fine.”
Bernard tilted his head. “Yes, well, your first choice simply won’t do, I’m afraid.”
“And why is that?” Jahns asked.
“I’m not sure how . . . thorough your background check has been, but we’ve had enough problems with this candidate that I recognized her name. Even though she is from Maintenance.”
Bernard said this last word like it was full of nails and might gut him to spit it out.
“What kinda problem?” Marnes demanded to know.
Jahns shot the deputy a look of warning.
“Nothing we would have wanted to report, mind you.” Bernard turned to Marnes. There was venom in the small man’s eyes, a raw hatred for the Deputy, or perhaps for the star on his chest. “Nothing worth involving the law. But there have been some . . . creative requisitions from her office, items rerouted from our use, improper claims of priority and the like.” Bernard took a deep breath and folded his hands together on top of the folder in front of him. “I wouldn’t go as far as calling it stealing, per se, but we have filed complaints with Deagan Knox as head of Mechanical to inform him of these . . . irregularities.”
“That’s it?” Marnes growled. “Requisitions?”
Bernard frowned. He spread his hands on the folder. “That’s it? Have you been listening? The woman has practically stolen goods, has had items re-routed from my department. It’s not clear if these are even for silo use. They could be for personal gain. God knows, the woman uses more than her allowance of electricity. Maybe she trades for chits—”
“Is this a formal accusation?” Marnes asked. He made a show of pulling his pad from his pocket and clicking his mechanical pen.
“Ah, no. As I said, we would not want to trouble your office. But, as you can see, this is not the sort of person to enter a career in high law. It’s what I expect of a mechanic, to be honest, which is where, I’m afraid, this candidate should stay.” He patted the folder as if putting the issue to rest.
“That’s your suggestion,” Mayor Jahns said.
“Why, yes. And I think since we have such a fine candidate ready and willing to serve and already living in the up-top—”
“I’ll take your suggestion into account.” Jahns took the crisp contract from the table and conspicuously folded it in half, pinching the crease with her fingernails as she slid them down its length. She stuck the piece of paper in one of her folders while Bernard watched, horrified.
“And since you have no formal complaints about our first candidate, I will take this as tacit approval to speak with her about the job.” Jahns stood and grabbed her bag. She slid the folders into the outside pouch and secured the flap, then grabbed her walking stick from where it leaned against the conference table. “Thank you for seeing us.”
“Yes, but—” Bernard scooted away from the table and hurried after her as Jahns made for the door. Marnes got up and followed, smiling.
“What should I tell Peter? He’s of the assumption that he starts any time!”
“You should never have told him anything,” Jahns said. She stopped in the foyer and glared at Bernard. “I gave you my list in confidence. You betrayed that. Now, I appreciate all you do for the silo. You and I have a long and peaceable history working together, overseeing what might be the most prosperous age our people have known—”
“Which is why—” Bernard began.
“Which is why I’m forgiving this trespass,” Mayor Jahns said. “This is my job. My people. They elected me to make these kinds of decisions. So my deputy and I will be on our way. We will give our top choice a fair interview. And I will be sure to stop by on my way up in case there is anything to sign.”
Bernard spread his hands in defeat. “Very well,” he said. “I apologize. I only hoped to expedite the process. Now please, rest a little, you are our guests. Let me get you some food, maybe some fruit?”
“We’ll be on our way,” Jahns said.
“Fine.” He nodded. “But at least some water? Top up your canteens?”
Jahns remembered one of them was already empty, and they had a few more flights to go.
“That would be a kind gesture,” she said. She waved to Marnes, who turned so she could grab his canteen from his pack. Then she turned her back so he could grab hers as well. Bernard waved to one of his workers to come fetch them and fill them up, but the entire time, he had his eyes on this curious and intimate exchange.
4
There were almost down to the fifties before Jahns could think straight. She imagined she could feel the weight of Peter Billings’ contract in her pack. Marnes muttered his own complaints from a few steps behind, bitching about Bernard and trying to keep up, and Jahns realized she was fixated, now. The weariness in her thighs and calves had become compounded by the growing sense that this trip was more than a mistake: it was probably futile. A father who warns her that his daughter won’t accept. Pressure from IT
to choose another. Now, each step of their descent could be taken with dread. Dread and yet a new certainty that Juliette was their man. This woman from Mechanical would be convinced to take the job, if only to show Bernard, if only to keep the arduous journey from becoming a total waste.
Jahns was old, had been Mayor a long time, partly because she got things done, partly because she prevented worse things from happening, but mostly because she made little turmoil. She felt like it was about time. Now, while she was old enough for it to not matter the consequences. She glanced back at Marnes and knew the same went for him. Their time was almost up. The best, the most important thing they could do for the silo, was to make sure their legacy endured. No uprisings. No abuses of power. It was why she ran unopposed the last few elections. But now she could sense that she was gliding to the finish while stronger and younger runners were preparing to overtake her. How many judges had she signed off on at Bernard’s request? And now the sheriff, too? How long before Bernard was mayor? Or worse: a puppet master with strings interwoven throughout the silo.