Silo 49: Dark Till Dawn

  Silo 49: Dark Till Dawn

  Part Three of the Silo 49 Trilogy

  A WOOL Universe Series

  by Ann Christy

  Copyright Information

  © 2013 by Ann Christy.

  All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and the product of a fevered imagination.

  Cover Art

  Torrey Cooney - http://torriecooney.blogspot.com

  Author’s Foreword

  This series has been written primarily for readers already familiar with the world of WOOL, that delicious dystopia created by Hugh Howey. While I’ve tried to make it accessible and enjoyable for readers who have not yet plunged into WOOL, much of what happens may not be understood in context unless one knows of the dark depths of the Silo world.

  I’ll be honest, I was terrified when I clicked ‘okay’ and uploaded the first story, Silo 49: Going Dark. While I did disclose that I’m an amateur more comfortable with my field of science than writing fiction, that didn’t stop me from hoping like mad that you, the readers, would like it. That most of you did delights me in ways I just can’t describe. That you continued to like the story through the second book, Silo 49: Dark Till Dawn basically made my year.

  With many thanks to Hugh Howey for his generous permission to publish this series set in his world of WOOL and the Silos and with affection for my fellow WOOLians, Ann Christy

  Part One

  The Race – Year One

  The Rabbit

  Excerpt from the book “Silo Ecology for Students”

  Farmers and historians disagree on the origins of the rabbit. Some believe the animal was designed by the silo for the silo. There are many sound scientific reasons to believe that. The rabbit grows quickly, breeds generously and eats the parts of plants people don’t enjoy. Rabbits are the most efficient animal within the silo.

  They don’t mind a handful of lettuce where the edges have gone soft or overgrown peapods that have split. They happily accept the monstrously shaped carrots that have been kept over for a second year to go to seed that would otherwise be wasted.

  In exchange for those less than attractive vegetable offerings, they provide meat, fur and easily portable fertilizer pellets prized for their long effect and dry texture. In the case of the giant Angora rabbits so many children enjoy for their cuddly nature, they also provide the softest and warmest of wool for caps and baby clothing.

  Many farmers argue that such an animal could never have been designed to live underground. They weaken and perish without careful timing of the special lights. When they escape they almost always flee toward the gardens, where they huddle beneath the greenery and vigilantly watch all that approach.

  On those sad occasions when one of the rabbits escapes the farms and reaches the stairway, they inevitably fall. They are not suited to a vertical life and the silo is nothing if not vertical. Yet when they reach an open area within the farms and decide to run, there is nothing that can match their speed. Some say this means they were meant for open spaces and wide stretches of land with occasional plant cover.

  Yet it is hard to imagine these tender creatures in the harsh world we know. And that is why farmers and historians agree that it is our great responsibility to maintain the rabbit population and keep their breeds true and healthy. One day the world will be reborn and then the answer will be settled once and for all. When the Others are erased and the wide vistas outside grow green again, the rabbit will emerge from the silo and run or stay as it wills.

  One

  The shadow assigned to assist her knocks on her door with perfect promptness. Cane in one hand and a sturdy arm bracing the other, Marina Patrick made her slow way toward the area set aside for today's events. After more than thirty years as the Archival Historian of the silo, she has aged into the oldest of them, yet this will be her first cleaning. It will also certainly be her last. Even being ported up to Level 1 has been almost more than she can bear. Her joints ache and grind like badly cut metal with each step.

  As per protocol, Marina is to arrive early to record the event and all that surround it. Only the sounds of her shuffling footsteps and puffing breaths accompany them along the passageway of partitioned rooms. The sounds of engineers yelling, construction workers banging and metal workers doing both were finally gone, their work leaving the whole level a different place.

  Three decades of learning and the work that came from what they had learned are complete at last. Everything is ready and it will be up to the cleaner and those who support him to prove they had done well. And it is up to Marina to record the events.

  The bright light and open space of Level 1 made her blink after the dimness of the hallway. Her eyes are drawn immediately to the place where all the construction had been focused. New walls enclose a much larger part of Level 1 than previously. The new door is a solid one, with large overlapping seals on the working side visible even from this distance. Beyond that, a rim of concrete has been added that rises about eight inches above the floor. So many people tripped on it during construction that it has been painted a vivid yellow.

  No other evidence of the vast changes made could be seen from here. People who came to the cafeteria to enjoy the view wouldn't be bothered and that was just as it should be. Getting over the little barrier is harder than Marina would have thought. Eventually, she’s forced to grab a handful of her coveralls and lift her less able left leg over the lip. No amount of internal demand seems to encourage the leg to lift more than a modest inch or two on its own.

  Inside the newly built walls, the stations for final stage decontamination are set up and ready, their carefully placed supplies covered by sheets to protect them until they are needed. A neat stack of clothes—hospital wear of un-dyed cotton and a pair of slippers—wait in an optimistic pile for the end of today's events.

  The doors to the one time offices and cells of the sheriff’s station have been sealed on the working side as well. More of the big, wide strips of gray sealing plastic, combined with pressure, keep the air where it needs to be. When the shadow pulls the door open, it makes a sucking sound that is vaguely obscene to Marina’s ears.

  A breeze rushes past her and into the room where the air pressure is lower, so that her long gray braid is the first part of her to enter. This area is no longer a simple workplace. It is a command center for the event to come and hopefully, for every exit into the world outside that follows. Precious monitors are crammed side by side along the walls, their views dark for the moment. And at the other end of the room, the cell door has been removed to allow for easy passage toward the inner decontamination staging area.

  The airlock, though she can only see the first door, is both an expanded and divided affair. Additional airlock doors— one of them from the passageway in the Fabber section where she once worked— have been fitted into the airlock to divide it. The airlock itself had been expanded into the room providing a three stage system of airlocks that all tests to date confirm will work. Bags and bags of fine orange dust have been used in the tests and not a single grain of it has ever escaped into the room where she now stands. They are ready.

  Two

  Marina accepts help to her chair, a well-padded one marked for her use alone, and settles into it gratefully. She smiles at the shadow and says, "Thank you, Steven. You can run along if you like. I'm just going to start writing my initial impressions of the day."

  Steven eyes her a moment, his expression letting her know he’s unsure abo
ut leaving the frail old woman she has become. After that moment of evaluation passes, he gives her a respectful nod and bids her goodbye. When the door slams closed with that peculiar sucking noise, Marina removes her book from her pocket and opens it to the first blank page. She checks that her little pot of ink is full and opens her pen to find a new nib, shiny and sharp. Steven is a very good shadow, indeed, she thinks and smiles.

  She looks around the room, at the tanks of water mounted on sturdy platforms all along the walls to either side of the expanded airlock, at the vast hoses that can dump the water with amazing speed into the last airlock and at the pumps that will move that same water back out and into more tanks set beneath the platforms. All of it has the rough look of the newly made. There are shiny spots on the metal where it has been recently ground, the welds all stand out in sharp relief and the bolts are un-rusted and freshly milled. It even smells new. Oil and chemicals and the peculiar sharp smell of welded metal.

  Marina dips her head toward her book to record it and finds that time has escaped her when she finally looks up again at the clock. She has filled many pages with details. The time reminds her of what they are risking today and Marina notes that old flutter in her belly returning. The hint of excitement brought about by the knowledge that soon the action will start.

  Even before she can finish the thought, the door un-suctions and the preparation group enters in a rush of anticipation and energy. The room fairly crackles with electricity as they cluster around the door, all of them talking at once before they break off to attend to their duties. Each gives her a respectful nod and slows their steps for a beat or two as they pass, but it is a temporary change. All are back at full speed, calling out their checklists to each other as they ready their respective stations.

  The runner—no longer a cleaner she reminds herself yet again—enters with his training team and the last of his suit team before she has even finished recording the activities of the prep team. The runner is a long and lean young man, vibrant with good health and energy. Marina examines his face as he passes but sees no fear there, only purpose.

  He’s already wearing his skin suit, its support systems put in place in the privacy of the medical prep room down the hall. Bulges along the back of his shoulders show where all the battery packs have been placed. It is safest inside the skin suit, which is the last thing that will breech if the worst happens. The coated wire harness that will attach to his helmet electronics bounces behind him as he walks. To Marina it looks like the upraised tail of a cat in fine fettle.

  The suit team springs into action the moment he nods his readiness. The council has trailed in behind him, some holding back a bit and others hot on his heels depending on their personality. While some of them watch with anxious expressions, the ones who hang back look like they are trying not to see what is going on at all. Marina can understand this well. The paradigm of who is chosen to clean is a firm one and hard for many to break, some of the council included.

  Until today, there have only been two successful recoveries of cleaners but they are the most recent two and that gives them cause for hope. Both were terminally ill, as the laws required, and both were volunteers. Today it is a very different situation. This young man is at the prime of his life and in perfect health. It is true that he is also a volunteer and that he competed with unwavering dedication for this day, but it still seems wrong in many respects. Marina has to remind herself that he won the right to be here today. He outran every other volunteer for this singular opportunity. Some changes are harder to accept than others.

  Marina flips open her book again as the suit team gets to work. Portable oxygen tanks cadged from the hospital have been filled and fitted. That and the small scrubber for his exhalations are fitted to his back at exactly the spots his training has determined are the best for his gait and endurance. The hoses are threaded through the routing ties and create another tail for the runner, this time in front of his chin. The young man doesn’t seem to mind his increasing encumbrance and gives the girl on the suit team that adjusts it for him a wink and a smile.

  The innermost suit layer is snug but not as tight as the skin suit and it crinkles noisily as they tug it on over his body. The sealing of this layer is as complete as it would be for one of the old single layer suits. Only the stiff ring that will fit into the innermost groove of the helmet seal is left unattached.

  The looser second layer is tinted red as a signal that his time outside has come to an end. The many tests they have done all confirm that having the innermost suit still sealed is crucial to a successful recovery. If the runner sees that red peeking out at any of the places where the suit seems to wear fastest then he knows that he must return without delay.

  The outer suit is the recognizable one. It isn’t that much different from the suits they have been using for many years, though much improved from the suits that still sit unused in the vaults. The care with which it is sealed is obsessively perfect.

  Marina gives a start when she hears him speak suddenly. Everyone else in the room freezes along with her.

  “Any chance I’ve got time to take a poo?”

  Though it is funny on its own— given the situation and his complete encapsulation in three suit layers— it is the expression on the suit-fitter that makes it hilarious. The expressions that cross his face combine shock, embarrassment and absolute helplessness against the layers of suit.

  The runner winks and says, “Just kidding,” which sends everyone around him into gales of laughter. Marina can feel the tension that has been building in the room drain away.

  The suit fitter makes a wry face and replies, “You’re such a dick, Henry.” After a pause, the roll of heat tape still dangling from his fingers, he makes a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. He drops the tape and grabs the runner in a tight hug.

  After an awkward beat, Henry returns the hug and pats the fitter’s back. Marina dips her pen and scribbles a description of the scene as quickly as she can, giving a quick nod to one of the artists standing by to do the same in pictures. He goes straight to work and Marina can confidently forget the artist for the moment.

  All the artists present are in the employ of the Historians for the day and look to her for guidance. She has to remind herself not to put them too far out of her mind. It is her responsibility to make sure this important event is recorded for posterity.

  She makes a quick note to find out the story of the fitter. How does he know Henry and what is their relationship? They look about the same age or thereabouts, so perhaps they went to school together or were playmates in childhood. When she looks up again, the two have disengaged and are performing the same manly postures all men do after moments of emotion. Marina suppresses a smile since a woman smiling knowingly during such moments is never much of a help.

  The last bits of the suit are hooked up and Henry tests the transmitter key on his leg beneath the suits. The click, click on his leg sounds out as beeps on the control console across the room. The code is slow and cumbersome, requiring long and short taps of the key to create letters, but it is a safe backup should anything go wrong with the suit communications in his helmet.

  At a nod from the operator, Henry stops keying and flexes his hands inside the constricting gloves. Marina jots down those first signs of nervousness in her book. The tight lines of Henry’s face are a shade paler than they had been only moments before. She gives another directive look toward the line of artists, all of them glancing her way at the movement, and the next one in line immediately bends to put a few broad sweeps on his paper and board. Each of them has been selected for their ability to capture ephemeral moments quickly, to imply detail without actually putting it to paper. She hopes they will perform as well as they need to. There are no do-overs.

  Two of the suit mechanics lift the backpack to Henry’s frame and began the process of connecting it to him. It is only the frame for now, to keep the weight down for as long as they can. The entire system has been desig
ned and built just for Henry’s weight, stride and strengths and it is a marvel to Marina. The gaps within the framework fit perfectly around the bumps and bulges of his tanks and all the rest beneath his suit.

  The cage that will hold the glass balls—glass being one of the few things that isn’t structurally affected by whatever it is outside—is handy to one side so that each new ball will roll down the slide and be exactly within reach when he needs it.

  On the other side are the two springy bits of steel where two other glass balls will be held. They are different and special, though. Each holds a precious camera pried from one of the thousands of derelict computers within the silo balanced on a gimbal. The gimbal means that the ball can be tossed but the camera inside will always turn to face the side when it finally rolls to a stop. They won’t work for long but that doesn’t matter. The batteries inside will wear down under the drain of the transmitter and the camera, but while they work they will provide vital information to those inside watching.

  One of the electrical engineers brings the two precious balls forward and Henry taps a key on his other leg. A green light glows briefly inside one of the balls and then goes out just as quickly with a second tap. Another couple of taps, on another key presumably, and the same happens inside the other ball. A grave but satisfied nod from the engineer is his only reply before he walks away with cautious steps.

  The most important part of suiting up is still to come. It is also the most frightening part of the process. It will separate Henry from the silo in every way until he returns. If he returns. The helmet rests inside a cushioned box and Henry glances that way very quickly. Marina can see that he is getting nervous now, knowing that helmet will be next. That won’t happen until he is in the airlock proper to conserve his air.