Juliette shook her head. “We’re not waiting two years,” she told him. The last three weeks in silo seventeen had been too much. This, she didn’t say.
“Okay,” he said, shrugging. He clomped up the stairwell in his too-big boots. His gray overalls were also baggy, as if he were still a young boy trying to wear clothing tailored for his father. He joined Juliette on the landing, smiled at her through his glistening beard. “You look like you have more projects,” he said happily.
She nodded silently. Anything the two of them worked on, whether it was fixing the sloppy wiring of the long-ago dead, or improving the farms, or repairing a light fixture’s ballast, Solo referred to as a “project.” And he professed to love projects. She decided it was something from his youth, some sort of survival mechanism he’d concocted over the years that allowed him to tackle whatever needed doing with a smile instead of horror or loneliness.
“Oh, we’ve got quite a project ahead of us,” Juliette told him, already dreading the job. She started making a mental list of all the tools and spares they’d need to scrounge on their way back up.
Solo laughed and clapped his hands. “Good,” he said. “Back to the workshop!” He twirled his finger over his head, pointing up at the long climb ahead of them.
“Not yet,” she said. “First, some lunch at the farms. Then we need to stop by Supply for some more things. And then I need some time alone in the server room.” Juliette turned away from the railing and that deep shaft of silver-green water below. “Before we get started in the workshop,” she said, “I’d like to make a call—”
“A call!” Solo pouted. “Not a call. You spend all your time on that stupid thing.”
Juliette ignored him and hit the stairs. She began the long slog up to IT, her fifth in three weeks. And she knew Solo was right: she was spending too much time making calls, too much time with those headphones pulled down over her ears, listening to them beep. She knew it was crazy, that she was going slowly mad in that place, but sitting at the back of that empty server with her microphone close to her lips and the world made quiet by the cups over her ears—just having that wire linking her from a dead world to one that harbored life—it was the closest she could get in silo seventeen to making herself feel sane.
57
. . . was the year the Civil War consumed the thirty-four states. More American lives were lost in this conflict than in all the subsequent ones combined, for any death was a death among kin. For four years, the land was ravaged, smoke clearing over battlefields of ruin to reveal brother heaped upon brother. More than half a million lives were lost. Some estimates range to almost twice that. Disease, hunger, and heartbreak ruled the life of man . . .
The pages of the book flashed crimson just as Lukas was getting to the descriptions of the battlefields. He stopped reading and glanced up at the overhead lights. Their steady white had been replaced with a throbbing red, which meant someone was in the server room above him. He retrieved the loose silver thread curled up on the knee of his overalls and laid it carefully into the spine of the book. Closing the old tome, he returned it to its tin case with care, then slid it into the gap on the bookshelf, completing the vast wall of silvery spines. Padding silently across the room, he bent down in front of the computer and shook the mouse to wake the screen.
A window popped up with live views of the servers, only distorted from such wide angles. It was another secret in a room overflowing with them, this ability to see distant places. Lukas searched through the cameras, wondering if it was Sammi or another tech coming to make a repair. His grumbling stomach, meanwhile, hoped it was someone bringing him lunch.
In camera four, he finally spotted his visitor: a short figure in gray overalls sporting a mustache and glasses. He was slightly stooped, a tray in his hands dancing with silverware, a sloshing glass of water, and a covered plate, all of it partly supported by his protruding belly. Bernard glanced up at the camera as he walked by, his eyes piercing Lukas from a level away, a tight smile curling below his mustache.
Lukas left the computer and hurried down the hallway to get the hatch for him, his bare feet slapping softly on the cool steel grating. He scrambled up the ladder with practiced ease and slid the worn red locking handle to the side. Just as he lifted the grate, Bernard’s shadow threw the ladderway into darkness. The tray came to a clattering rest as Lukas shifted the section of flooring out of the way.
“I’m spoiling you today,” Bernard said. He sniffed and uncovered the plate. A fog of trapped steam billowed out of the metal hood, two stacks of pork ribs revealing themselves underneath.
“Wow.” Lukas felt his stomach rumble at the sight of the meat. He lifted himself out of the hatch and sat on the floor, his feet dangling down by the ladder. He pulled the tray into his lap and picked up the silverware. “I thought we had the silo on strict rations, at least until the resistance is over.”
He cut a piece of tender meat free and popped it in his mouth. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.” He chewed and savored the rush of proteins, reminded himself to be thankful for the animal’s sacrifice.
“The rations haven’t been lifted,” Bernard said. “We had a pocket of resistance flare up in the bazaar, and this poor pig found himself in the crossfire. I wasn’t about to let him go to waste. Most of the meat, of course, went to the wives and husbands of those we’ve lost.”
“Mmm?” Lukas swallowed. “How many?”
“Five, plus the three from that first attack.”
Lukas shook his head.
“It’s not bad, considering.” Bernard brushed his mustache with his hand and watched Lukas eat. Lukas gestured with his fork while he chewed, offering him some, but Bernard waved him away. The older man leaned back on the empty server that housed the uplink and the locking handle for the ladderway. Lukas tried not to react.
“So how long will I need to stay in here?” He tried to sound calm, like any answer would do. “It’s been three weeks, right?” He cut off another bite, ignoring the vegetables. “You think a few more days?”
Bernard rubbed his cheeks and ran his fingers up through his thinning hair. “I hope so, but I don’t know. I’ve left it up to Sims, who’s convinced the threat isn’t over. Mechanical have themselves barricaded pretty good down there. They’ve threatened to cut the power, but I don’t think they will. I think they finally understand that they don’t control the juice up here on our levels. They probably tried to cut it before they stormed in and then were surprised to see us all lit up.”
“You don’t think they’ll cut the power to the farms, do you?” He was thinking of the rations, his fear of the silo being starved.
Bernard frowned. “Eventually. Maybe. If they get desperate enough. But that’ll just erode whatever support those greasers have up here. Don’t worry, they’ll get hungry enough and give in. It’s all going by the book.”
Lukas nodded and took a sip of water. The pork was the best he thought he’d ever had.
“Speaking of the book,” Bernard asked, “are you catching up with your studies?”
“Yeah,” Lukas lied. He nodded. In truth, he had hardly touched the book of Order. The more interesting details were found elsewhere.
“Good. When this annoyance is over, we’ll schedule you some extra shifts in the server room. You can spend that time shadowing. Once we reschedule the election—and I don’t think anyone else will run, especially not after all this—I’ll be up top a lot more. IT will be yours to run.”