Karma of the Silo: The Collection Page 10

  I look at my son and his bride, standing before me in their glorious youth, ready to leap into a new life. So brave. Life goes on, and love grows between people, even in this wretched tomb under the earth.

  I smile, take a deep breath, and intone the formal phrase that makes a marriage official.

  “And so, by the power vested in me by the Silo, I now pronounce you—”

  A thundering blast is heard from deep below us, and I reach out to Mars to steady myself as the floor trembles. He quickly moves to support Ruth with one arm and me with the other. Rick is at my side at once, an expression of fear on his face as he swallows and looks around the cavernous room, where guests are reacting with shock and dismay. Erica was knocked off balance by the vibrations, and is crying, upset about seeing her flower wreath on the floor. Athena has rushed over to her daughter to make sure she isn’t hurt.

  The Sheriff is on his feet, having jumped up from where he was sitting in the back row of chairs. He is slapping his hip and I see that he is checking for his gun, probably something he didn’t expect to need for a wedding.

  The cafeteria workers, standing on the side behind tables laden with the aromatic feast, are busy mopping up spills and righting containers.

  Deputy Herring rushes in from the Sheriff’s office just across the way. Her eyes are serious and she doesn’t hesitate to run across the floor of the large room to reach her boss. As she does so, the entire gathering can hear her radio crackle as a loud voice informs us:

  “Explosion in Mechanical. Not an accident.”

  2

  “By the power vested in me by the Silo, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” I shout the sentence over the chaos, just to make sure the deed is done, and then hustle to the back of the crowd to talk to the Sheriff. Rick and Mars, who has been his father’s shadow since he turned sixteen, are intent on getting down to IT on thirty-four to figure out what had happened, and both of them have urged me and Ruth to stay in the Up Top where things are calm.

  Athena lets Erica grab some cookies and then leaves with Dylan, who has hoisted Erica onto his shoulders for the walk back down to seventeen. Most of the wedding guests mill around, confused about whether it’s safe to stay and enjoy the mouth-watering feast set out on the long tables beside us. Most seem to decide it is safe enough… or maybe that if there’s going to be trouble it’s even more important to be well-fed and fortified with wine, a renowned inspirer of courage.

  Ruth looks stunned to realize that her wedding day is going to be less of a celebration and more of a day of chaos… perhaps even a tragedy, since her people are from Mechanical, and may very well have been involved in the explosion. Whether as instigators or victims, we don’t know.

  That issue is on my mind as I urge her to go back to our apartment, where she was planning to open gifts with Mars before taking off on their honeyweek.

  “Are you certain I can’t be of help up here?” she asks me as we stand near the top of the stairway, making sure to let people by. The wedding was scheduled for the time of lightest cafeteria use, and even with the festivities cut short it is nearing the time when early eaters are arrive for their dinner. The stairs are humming with conversations about the explosion.

  I look at Ruth, my new daughter-in-law, and realize she is offering to be an interpreter of sorts. I get a chill of what might be foreboding as I think about her position here. If it comes to a test of loyalties, how will Ruth decide between her husband—with his Up Top family—and her Down Deep roots? It has occurred to me that I may find myself, as one of the Silo judges, deciding the fate of her rebellious colleagues.

  I shake my head and gesture toward the stairs. “Thank you, Ruth, but really there’s not much to do until we figure out what happened. It may be nothing, just a minor accident.” I can tell by her eyes that she doesn’t buy my attempt at nonchalance. Frustration has been building for years, and anyone with any awareness—that is to say, anyone not completely doped up by the drugged water—knows that the Silo population is an explosion waiting to happen.

  And now, perhaps, it has.

  Reluctantly, Ruth nods and heads down the stairs, her glorious wedding dress floating behind her and her delicate slippers soundless as they hit each step. Others making their way up and down stop to admire her rare finery, recognizing her as a bride, and knowing that this same recycled outfit will grace many a woman on her wedding day, until it turns to elegant tatters.

  “Poor child, right? To have her big day interrupted by that terrible bomb,” a woman says to her companion as she passes me.

  Her friend gives her a gentle chuck on the shoulder as she responds, “But won’t it be a fine way to keep track of her anniversary? Everyone will remember the day they blew up Mechanical!” She laughs and the other woman nods in agreement.

  My heart heavy, I look up to see the Sheriff waiting for me in his office across the landing.

  He looks as grim as I feel.

  3

  Deputy Herring stands up and offers me her chair when I arrive in the office. I shake my head no but give her a polite smile.

  Sheriff Aponte doesn’t get up. He’s speaking into the radio. “Right. Judge Brewer has joined us.”

  Static fills the room as he takes his finger off the speaker button. I’m well aware that his statement could mean he was cautioning those in radio communication that a judge, and the wife of the Head of IT, was now in the room. Or perhaps he was just being polite by introducing me. Either way, whoever is on the other end knows I am in here now.

  Aponte turns to me while he turns the radio crackle down. “So here’s what we know. It looks like Mechanical was trying to build a bomb of some sort, and it exploded prematurely. Probably saved some lives that it happened this way. Now we know what they’re up to.” He stops, apparently remembering where he’d been when it happened. “Sorry it spoiled your son’s wedding.”

  I nod quickly to acknowledge his concern. “Any deaths?”

  “No, remarkably.” He puts on his glasses and pushes his sandy hair back with a hand. The man needs a haircut, I notice. Probably because he doesn’t have a wife. Rumor is that he and the Deputy are sweet on each other. No surprise that he would be interested in her. She’s not bad to look at for a woman who spends a lot of time acting fierce enough to encourage good behavior from men twice her size. And they are about the same age—mid-thirties. Older than most who got married. Typically the young people jump in by twenty or before… it’s the only way to get your own place… and be allowed to have sex. At least that’s the official rule.

  Deputy Herring is a catch, for sure. But as far as I am concerned, Sheriff Aponte is not. I look at her looking at him, and can see she feels differently.

  Aponte examines his notes, apparently scribbled while he was getting a radio report from the Deputy Sheriff closest to Mechanical.

  “Deputy Lincoln says there were a few shrapnel wounds and some injuries from the force of the impact throwing people against walls, as you’d expect. But no deaths. They were lucky.”

  I see Herring nod, her blonde curls bobbing as she agrees. Admiration shines in her eyes. Too much time spent alone together in this office, I figure. He’s probably the only man she knows well enough to develop a crush on.

  “So what’s the plan?” I ask. What indeed? Mechanical might as well have declared the start of an armed revolt, since their attempt to build the bomb certainly telegraphed their intentions.

  “Deputy Lincoln is on the scene now, and the Security people IT loaned him are making their way from thirty-four to the Down Deep lickety spittle.” Aponte takes off his glasses and looks at me. “They’ll have… the necessary equipment.”

  I shudder, then repress it. Guns is what they will have, as I well knew. Rick keeps me pretty much in the dark about his doings in IT—protecting me, probably, as much as anything else—but I know they have guns and plenty of other means of controlling the population. There have been enough minor skirmishes in the quarter century we’ve been
underground for me to realize that his department is equipped to put down any attempts to overthrow the power structure.

  Of course, there haven’t been any major attempts. Until, perhaps, now.

  The radio crackles to life again, and Aponte turns the volume up.

  “IT has sent most of its Security forces down, so we’ll find out what was brewing.” The hiss and crackle fill a space between words as the voice of Deputy Lincoln from the Down Deep pauses. “We’re going to stop whatever is going on in Mechanical way before it gets to you.”

  I look up, catching the eye of Aponte, and I see that he looks eager to take them on. Even the law is itching for a fight.

  4

  I stop in the cafeteria for some food before I make my way downstairs to reconnect with Ruth. The atmosphere is weirdly festive. Something is happening. And on most days in the Silo, nothing is happening. So even unrest seems exciting and different.

  I purposely sit on my own, at the back end of the cafeteria. I’m trying to get a little space after the events of the day. At one time, sitting here and eating by myself would have been seen as suspicious. But with my position as a judge, I am now considered wise. Or at least safe. Little do they know.

  Despite the general tension, it seems that surveillance is less prevalent than it used to be. While revolution may be brewing down below, here in the Up Top it seems that many of us are worn down, aging, or out of it because of the drugs, while anyone under twenty-five is so young there’s no “before” to compare it to… and all of us are cowed enough to realize it will be difficult to dislodge those in charge.

  Noisy as it is in the cafeteria at this time of day, it is possible to feel alone and think for a bit amidst the bustle of the people coming and going, the clink of utensils and the smells of food. I look around for evidence of this afternoon’s wedding and see nothing at all. Tables reconfigured, spills mopped up, food servers gone back to work in the large kitchen.

  It’s as though the marriage ceremony and the ruined banquet never happened.

  Two and a half decades down here and it is still a bizarre life to me. So many elements of the world above—the time before—are missing, and one of the biggest is communication. We don’t have phones, let alone an Internet, and the average person has no access to computers. All the ways it was once easy to talk, spout our opinions, share our photos and articles and videos… are gone. There are no photos and articles and videos. Entire threads of human expression were literally wiped from the face of the earth. And here we are underground with a dwindling number of people who remember any other way of life.

  I was thirty-two when I was locked into the Silo. Now I’m fifty-seven, or so I figure. Athena was the very first infant born in the Silo who survived, and she’s twenty-five. Only the people between about thirty-five and death remember the time before in any meaningful way—or could remember, if they weren’t doped up.

  And a precious few of us do our best to keep that truth alive.

  5

  I make my way down the stairs to seventeen, hearing the chatter of those walking past me on their way up. The stairs are thick with people in coveralls, every one in an assigned color. Here in the Up Top, we are the elite, but even here there are those whose work it is to slop food on trays, hoist wet clothing out of the laundry bins—my old job—or scrub dirt off the stairs during the quiet hours. Others of us teach, heal, govern. It looks as though this is where the power is, with the Mayor and the Sheriff on the highest floors. But I know where the real power lies.

  It is on thirty-four, where my husband is in charge, and my son will one day take his place. They tell me almost nothing. Nevertheless, I have eyes and ears, and I pay attention.

  There was a time I played dumb, but that is long gone. Now I don’t hide my avoidance of the drugged water, and I don’t hide my intelligence. Still, there are certain subjects we stay away from, Rick and I. Such as the world we once knew.

  With Athena, I can talk. I taught my daughter about everything, as soon as she was old enough for me to be sure she could keep it confidential. In her teens, she joined me in the supposed “art classes” I still hold. In secret, we resurrect memories in those who had them, and create them in those younger.

  It isn’t just girls anymore. There seem to be some boys who are not affected by the water, and some girls who are. As far as I can determine, it’s a brain chemistry thing, and the incidence of those who are naturally resistant to the drugs seems to be perhaps one percent. Maybe it was never gender specific, it was simply that the girls talked, and shared their confusion with friends sooner.

  Those young people found themselves to my door, eventually, because they were puzzled by what they remembered. But as time passed, and only those over a certain age had ever lived outside, it wasn’t a matter of remembering the time before, but remembering clearly what happened last week or last month.

  Even now, we have to be very careful. As the teacher, I know nearly all of the original young people who spontaneously remembered. Beyond those, I try to avoid knowing names. We work in cells. I’m head of the original, and my reach extends no further than our group.

  Each individual is linked to another small cell, and so on, the cells connected by only one person in common. From the Up Top to the Down Deep, there are cells of memory-holders—some of whom were clued in by another, and then decided to stop drinking the water. I’ve been told that there are entire families who keep their minds clear by using the vegetable pulp we typically drink… but I don’t know who they are. And that’s safer for all of us.

  Over the years, we have adopted various names. The Rememberers, The Chain. Friends of Rose. Or simply “R Group.” They all share the signal—crossed fingers as a symbol of membership in the group.

  Athena is a member. Someday, her daughter Erica will be one. As far as I am aware, Athena’s husband Dylan, my old kindergarten student, is not. But what they share via pillow talk is none of my business.

  Mars is not one of us. Once he agreed to shadow his father, and began spending his days with Rick, I was glad that I had never talked to him about the time before and those of us who remember. Not knowing saved him from having to choose between his parents. And not knowing means he is free to embrace the company line and do whatever they do down in IT without ambivalence.

  Do I love my son less than my daughter?

  I hope not.

  Now he is down on thirty-four, with his father, and he’ll be part of whatever is done to put down any threatening behavior in Mechanical. I pray that Mars will not have to test the loyalty of his brand-new wife by taking action against her people.

  6

  I swing the door open to our apartment and I’m startled to see Ruth sitting at Rick’s computer.

  “What… how do you know how to work that?” Rick has never let me touch it, and keeps it locked, though I certainly used a computer before I lived in the Silo. But Ruth is only eighteen, and I wonder how she would have learned. And how she got the nerve to do so.

  To my surprise, she doesn’t even turn around. Her fingers are flying on the keyboard. Clearly, this is not a first attempt.

  “Mars is in trouble,” she says, clicking one more button and then standing. I see that she has discarded her wedding dress and is once again in coveralls. “The bomb in Mechanical was a diversionary tactic. IT is being stormed right now.”

  She pushes past me out the door and is off, down the hall and onto the stairs. As soon as I close my mouth, I follow, her racing figure far in front of me, turning the spirals as I hear the ominous sounds of guns being fired, the echos reverberating up the stairway.

  7

  By the time I get down to the twenties, the stairs are teaming with people, most rising, getting away from the fighting and going to safer ground. I push against the tide, trying to stay on the inside of the spirals, my knees already sore from the punishing pace.

  Sweat drips down my forehead and the salty burn hits my eyes. My coveralls are damp on the small
of my back. I am glad my hair is up and out of my face—for a moment I remember that this day started with a wedding celebration, and that’s why I have an elaborate braid woven around my head.

  Unwelcome thoughts of what might be happening to my son and my husband are jumbled in with questions of what I think I can possibly do to help. Since I’m unarmed, untrained, and disinclined to use violence—those precious few of us who remember hope to preserve the past and share our knowledge while avoiding a bloody uprising—I don’t really know what I might accomplish. But I know that I can’t do anything but go and try to help.

  Wiping the sweat off my brow, I turn another spiral.

  8

  The sounds of battle have quieted as I approach thirty-four. I’m exhausted but eager to get there. I can feel the dryness in my throat, which is aching for water. My knees tremble with the impact from hundreds of steps I have walked down… each moment of impact still reverberating in my bones and muscles.

  There is no traffic on the stairs anymore. People have gone up or down the Silo to avoid what is happening on this level. I breathe a sigh of relief knowing that the fighting is over and I can rest at my destination. Rick and Mars are down here. I’ll get some water, sit down, figure out what happened. Thank God I see no blood. The shots must simply have been meant as a warning.

  As I turn the final spiral and see the landing for thirty-four, I realize I’ve been wrong. A dozen workers from Mechanical, completely silent, crouch as far away as possible from the double doors leading into IT. Something is about to happen. I hesitate, not knowing what to do.

  And then there is movement. I see an arm raised to throw something toward the door, and immediately the stairs buck beneath me. A hot white light stuns my eyes, and the heat of the explosion hits my skin.