“Well, I think we both know Murphy’s name is on this list for flattery. He’s too old for the job—”
“Younger than me,” Marnes interrupted. “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’s from Maintenance.”
Bernard said this last word like it was full of nails and might gut him to spit it out.
“What kinda problems?” Marnes demanded.
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 rerouted 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 deliberately 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 anytime!”
“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 signaled 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 kept his eyes on this curious and intimate exchange.
11
They were almost down to the fifties before Jahns could think straight. She imagined she could feel the weight of Peter Billings’s 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 was taken with dread. Dread and yet a new certainty that Juliette was the person for the job. They would have to convince this woman from Mechanical to take the post, if only to show Bernard, if only to keep this 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 rarely made a ruckus. She felt like it was about time—now, while she was old enough for the consequences not to matter. 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 had run 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.
“Take it easy,” Marnes huffed.
Jahns realized she was going too fast. She slowed her pace.
“That bastard’s got you riled up,” he said.
“And you better be as well,” she hissed back at him.
“You’re passing the gardens.”
Jahns checked the landing number and saw that he was right. If she’d been paying attention, she would’ve noticed the smell. When the doors on the next landing flew open, a porter bearing sacks of fruit on each shoulder strode out, the scent of lush and wet vegetation accompanying him and overpowering her.
It was past dinnertime, and the smell was intoxicating. The porter, even though overburdened, saw that they were leaving the stairwell for the landing and held the door open with a planted foot as his arms bulged around the weight of the large sacks.
“Mayor,” he said, bowing his head and then nodding to Marnes as well.
Jahns thanked him. Most of the porters looked familiar to her: she’d seen them over and over as they delivered throughout the silo. But they never stayed in one place long enough for her to catch and remember a name, a normally keen skill of hers. She wondered, as she and Marnes entered the hydroponic farms, if the porters made it home every night to be with their families. Or did they even have families? Were they like the priests? She was too old and too curious not to know these things. But then, maybe it took a day on the stairwell to appreciate their job, to notice them fully. The porters were like the air she breathed, always there, always serving, so necessary as to be ubiquitous and taken for granted. But now the weariness of the descent had opened her senses completely to them. It was like a sudden drop in the oxygen, triggering her appreciation.