Silo 49: Dark Till Dawn Read online

  At a nod, Henry’s mother and father are let inside the space. They must have been waiting outside the door the whole time because they rush in and head directly for their son. Both give him careful but slightly desperate hugs around his neck, careful not to touch his suit overmuch. His mother touches his face all over, brushing her fingers over his eyes and brow as if she must memorize the way her son feels. Marina can see that she is doing her best to be brave but the tremors of emotion that flit across her face are heartbreaking in their intensity.

  She sends another nod toward the artists and another of them sets to work. The first artist has removed the paper from his board and is already smoothing down a new sheet in readiness. Their speed is impressive.

  When the hugs are done, it is Henry that tells them to go rather than the control room personnel. Marina watches him tell them that he will be fine with utmost confidence and give them both a jaunty smile. He keeps the smile on until the door closes behind them and then it falls away in swift stages.

  The mood in the room has shifted somehow in the small moment between the door opening and then closing behind Henry’s parents. It has become all business and tense, but not in a way that feels bad. It’s more like the tension that comes from focusing on a job so that it will be well done and that is, paradoxically, a tension that feels good and full of purpose. Marina notes it in her book because it seems like something very easy to forget when recalling the scene later.

  The whole production now moves toward the airlocks and the rest of the operations crew files in the outer door to proceed directly toward their stations. Someone comes and helps Marina up so she can follow the smaller group. By the time she is lowered into a chair close by the first airlock, Henry has already gone inside with the helmet fitter.

  The helmet, though much like the original in general shape, is a very different affair in almost every way. Before being lowered over his head, the wire harness is hooked up and there is a sudden burst of sound behind them as two of the screens blaze to life with color and sound. Henry’s breathing is amplified painfully into the room and the operator scrambles to lower the sound to a more useful level.

  After a thumbs-up, the system is shut down to conserve battery power and Marina watches as the screens darken once more. Once the helmet is lowered, time becomes the enemy so the speed of everything has to pick up considerably. The first ring from the suit is clamped in place around the helmet, then the second and finally the outer suit ring. This will keep Henry safer because all three suits have to breech before contaminated air gets into his helmet.

  The mouth and face pieces are awkward for him and Marina watches as he moves his head until he is comfortable, though she doubts very seriously that anything about what he is doing is actually comfortable. The face piece looks a bit like a blunted cone and keeps the lower half of his face out of view even when not engaged, but at least he can still speak and be heard. In order to seal it, he will have to shove his head forward inside the helmet, grab the mouthpiece with his teeth and clamp down on it. If that happens, and they are hoping it won’t, then he will no longer be able to speak and will be forced to use his leg key. The only reason for him to use that face piece would be in the case of a suit breech all the way into the inner layer.

  They have found through terrible experience that getting whatever it is out there inside of the body is a sure path to death. Survival after topical exposure, at least for some period of time, is much more likely. Marina knows without looking that somewhere amongst the equipment at the various stations are irons which can be heated quickly and used against skin that is exposed. It is painful and not guaranteed, but it worked the only time they had tried it previous to this.

  The last cleaner had worn through one knee of his suit quickly after a fall. It seems that anyplace there is friction, or where the suit faces the wind, the process of disintegration is faster. That cleaner’s breech had been very small, an area no more than an inch across. The idea of using heat had come from a suit designer. His logic was that fire had once been used to cleanse the airlock of the toxic eaters so why wouldn’t it do the same when directly applied.

  The whole process had been gruesome from what Marina read afterward and she was heartily glad not to have been there. But it had worked. That cleaner, afflicted with what was believed to be cancer of the lungs, lived without effect until it took him three months later. In quarantine for some of that time, he spent a halcyon month as a celebrity before he took to his bed for the last time.

  Marina would rather not think about the iron and turns her gaze back to the runner. With his helmet in place, the cone rests in front of his mouth, but she can still see the smile in his eyes. He gives another thumbs-up to let them know the air is coming out at the rate it should. Marina knows from the briefings that it will be a very slow trickle rather than a stream. It is enough to keep him oxygenated but not enough to require much venting. The scrubber on his back will do the rest.

  The ripping sound of more heat tape breaks the tense quiet and the helmet is finally fully sealed against encroachment. The secondary fitter and the quality checker go around Henry quickly but thoroughly, calling out a continuous stream of “Check” as each item is called out. One hearty slap on the back for Henry, to get through all the layers, and he is ready to go.

  The technicians leave the airlock and the harsh clank of metal as it is slammed and sealed causes many in the room to flinch. Marina notes that as well. From her seat, she can see Henry’s helmeted head through the little round window much like the one she looked through countless times during her former life as a Fabber. He turns to face forward with no ceremony and the process begins.

  Three

  Henry operates the second airlock himself and enters the mid-station. The door is actually the original airlock door but it has been extensively reworked. He seals it behind him and at the noise of it, the operator stations blaze to life once more. Henry’s reflected face shows up five feet tall on one of the screens while the door of the final section of airlock spins into view as he turns to face it.

  The shiny inside of the helmet is reflective enough that they have been able to have both cameras facing outward, one slightly offset to get more of the view. His ghostly reflection is more than enough to assess Henry’s situation though it is somewhat disconcerting, as if he were already halfway gone.

  Marina, along with everyone else, watches as Henry’s view shifts slightly up and then back down. He has taken a deep and fortifying breath. His eyes narrow above the dark swath of face cone and his hand appears in the view as he opens the door to enter the final bit of the airlock. He points with his head toward the door behind him to show that he has sealed it fully and the light that turned red when he opened it flashes back to green to confirm closure. The operators at the consoles give their confirmations and then the airlock operators start their work.

  Through Henry’s helmet Marina sees the patter of droplets that rain down on him from the nozzles inside. The gas that was once used is no more, just as the automated door mechanism is defunct. Marina now understands that this happened at the time of the First Heroes, but before her discovery of the Graham and Wallis books, it had been something they knew, but didn’t understand. These nozzles are their own design and are nothing more than a fancy shower.

  The solution the covers Henry is mostly water, but it contains a complex mix of chemicals that create an almost filmy layer on the suit. Marina had dipped a fingertip into the solution before it was ported up to Level 1 and thought it strange. When she rubbed her fingers together they were slick and slippery but at the same time they felt like there was nothing there at all. She could see the glistening of wetness on her fingertips, but could not feel it. The solution was years in the making.

  They test coated several items, including suit fabric, and exposed it in the outer airlock with the door open. Whatever is in the air outside, it doesn’t like the juice at all. The uncoated items became pitted and eroded within moments. T
he coated ones looked barely touched. Even raw meat soaked in the fluid appeared less impacted than the uncoated slab.

  The only downside is that the fluid is intensely irritating to the skin. When applied to humans—mostly technical personnel who volunteer too easily to test their new toys—it creates a burning rash that is intolerable. That irritation soon turns into watery blisters if the solution remains. And the only really effective way to wash it off is immersion in a tank full of water heavily dosed with laundry soap. Marina learned that to her dismay after not getting it all off of her fingers. She still has bandages on two fingers. And she had only put a few drops worth on her skin. She didn’t want to think about what the technicians must have looked like given the reports on the effects.

  On the screen, everyone’s view skews as Henry rotates; lifting his arms and legs in turn to ensure he is as coated as he can possibly get. The hiss of the spray ceases abruptly and Henry faces forward once more. His eyes have gone from narrow to wide and almost surprised. A few calming words come from the operator so others in the room must have also noticed those widened eyes. The camera bobs as he nods and then says, “Let’s do this thing. I’m burning air, here.”

  Deep rumbling noises from the airlock doors begin almost immediately and the vibration can be felt all the way to Marina’s chair. She grits her teeth and points for an artist to capture the operators and the screen. The rest of the artists have their eyes glued to the screens like everyone else. What she sees almost captures her, too.

  The door has begun to open.

  Four

  Henry’s head bobs up and down as he bounces, anxious for the doors to open completely enough for him to start his run. A few of the heads in the control room bob along with him in unconscious sympathy for what they see.

  Marina knows that Henry is fully aware that he mustn’t try to push the envelope and squeeze through the gap in the doors. All that he carries on his body increases his bulk substantially and he can ill afford to have any of it damaged, least of all the suit that is his only protection against a deadly world.

  A puff of dust laden wind pushes its way into the gap and makes the bright light outside hazy and beautiful for a moment. Henry raises a hand to clear his helmet, and a few people in the room gasp, but he stops himself just in time. The coating is important for his gloves and brushing it away on his helmet is not a good idea so early in his run.

  Marina hears a soft, “Oops,” come through the speakers. Henry is definitely charming.

  When the opening is wide enough, the operator calls out a sharp, “Go!”

  Henry doesn’t pause for even a moment. He grabs the tank with the power wand that waited for him in the airlock and bursts forward with long, confident strides. The tilt of the ramp looks so strange from her position, seated as she is in a chair, that Marina feels a touch of vertigo. It lasts only a moment and she regains the presence of mind to call out a sharp, “Draw”.

  One of the artists calls back, “Got it!”, and starts without taking his eyes from the moving image.

  Henry breeches the level ground beyond the ramp and it is a very strange thing to see. Perhaps it is the human element of his reflected face, but the world seems much larger through the helmet than in the view screen they see in the cafeteria. Or perhaps it is that the view is moving rapidly as he turns and scans the area while the one in the cafeteria is static and eternally still.

  What he is doing is all a part of his script. Stop, turn a full 360 and show the view, turn back to the silo and stop again. He is doing it so perfectly it is like he is reciting it in his head. Perhaps he is. The operator who is in charge of speaking with Henry throughout his run gives him a confirming check for the next stage.

  Henry brings up the wand and a blast of their solution comes screaming out of the tank at the flick of his finger. It is under pressure and meant to work quickly and completely. If there is time, Henry will put on the ablative film during his return run, but that is not their priority. The view is still in pretty good shape for now and the blast from their washing tank should be enough to clean it.

  They all hear the whine as pressure bleeds out of the tank and Henry mutters an expletive as he fumbles with the handle wheel. He must get it closed before the pressure is completely lost or they can’t bring it back inside. The danger of contamination would simply be too great. He manages it, the whine weaker but still audible through the helmet, when it abruptly stops at the same moment his hand stops turning the wheel.

  He gives the tank a gentle underhand toss toward the head of the ramp and it lands solidly in the sandy dirt, ready to be grabbed and brought back. He turns without hesitation, making Marina dizzy in the process, as she watches it on the screen. Henry runs to the rise that surrounds them and crests it. He examines the view in the only safe direction they are aware of, just as he’s been briefed to.

  The diagram on the wall has been based on everything Marina and the other Historians have been able to glean from Graham’s books and what past cleaners reported. There is a wide wedge drawn on it, extending from their silo to the unknown that lies beyond it. But that wedge is in a specific direction because all who understand their situation agree that going near any other silo will bring nothing but disaster.

  There are too many unknowns. Too many strange occurrences have been noted in the last decades. A column of dust and dirt was seen boiling up from the surface at the edge of their viewscreen some years ago. The council knew that another silo lay in that direction and such a disturbance did not bode well for any peaceful meeting in that direction. On another occasion the Watch reported sighting a trio of suited figures walking along the ridge line in the dark of night, though no one else saw them.

  No matter what might be going on elsewhere, the wedge is the safe direction. It is away from the array of silos and it is where none have gone before. They are very fortunate that their silo is in the outer perimeter of silos and Marina knows this fact alone gives them real and concrete hope.

  Marina raises a hand and says, “Draw.” One of the artists has already begun and Marina is glad that they understand what is important to her and the rest of the silo.

  The operator gives some instructions, which reverberate back from the speaker in Henry’s helmet so that it sounds like two men are reciting the same thing but have poor timing. Henry responds and turns to capture the view. He stays steady while the details are noted, only the sound of his measured breathing in the speakers.

  The operator and his echo ask, “Henry, what’s the feeling out there today?”

  Henry’s helmet jiggles and Marina sees his reflected eyes dart about for a moment. “There’s a little breeze, maybe a touch stronger than the silo norm. It’s pretty clear, too. I can see a good distance. More than I thought. No evidence of anyone around.”

  “Good. Now go for the program. Do you have your point to run to?”

  Henry’s view shivers a little as he points the helmet and it’s camera directly at a ragged disturbance in the direction of the catchment lake, which is only visible as a sheet of black on the ground in the distance. Marina sees another artist dip his head to begin drawing and nods in satisfaction.

  “That’s my direction. Verify, please.” Henry is polite even while he is outside and under the most severe stress any silo person can ever experience.

  The operator turns to Marina, as does the rest of the council. She knows the structure is the one reported by former cleaners and is well within the safe wedge. She gives them a nod and the operator immediately turns away.

  “Henry, you are a go for run. I repeat, you are a go for your run. Run!”

  Five

  Marina finds herself unable to continue looking directly at the screen almost immediately. When she tears her gaze away and looks about, she can clearly see that others are feeling the same. Hands begin reaching toward the backs of chairs for support and heads are bowing. Even the artists look away. One of them turns quite pale and grips his drawing board as if he might vom
it.

  It’s the bouncing that’s doing it. No one with any real vigor has ever gone outside that Marina is aware of. Previous expeditions consisted primarily of the plodding gait of a fading life, not the wide open run of someone at the peak of health. The view through the helmet is absolutely nauseating. That there are two views, one camera offset just a little from the other, just makes it worse because the cameras are not mounted exactly evenly. One is pointed a bit further up than the other and it makes the whole room seem like it is tilting.

  With a hard swallow, Marina looks back up at the screens. She is responsible for recording everything she can. There are other watchers in the room who are supposed to provide their own viewpoint, as are the artists, but she is ultimately responsible. It isn’t any better and Marina spreads her feet a little on the floor so she’ll feel more stable as the view in front of the runner bounces and jags with unpredictable movements.

  One of the operators at the consoles yells out, “Ten minutes!”

  There is a sort of collective sigh around them. It is part relief but also part fear. They have never had anyone go fast or far. To date, forays outside by cleaners have been slow and they were lucky what needed doing got done before they shuffled off, sucked down their poppy extract, and collapsed behind the silo where no one inside could see them. No one has ever taken off like this and it is breathtaking, frightening and terribly exciting.

  The jagged bit in the distance that Henry is aiming for doesn’t look any closer to Marina, but added to that jagged bit is the darker shadow of the lake so faint that it is more a suggestion than anything definable. Marina waves at one of the artists to come over. He does, craning his neck to keep watching the screens as he approaches.

  “Do you see anything there, to the right of his marker?” she asks him, nodding toward the screen. “Can you tell me what it is?”

  He turns away to examine the screen and Marina watches him. He sees it too, his eyes squinting a little and his head tilted to the side. “I’m not sure. It seems large and on the ground. Flat. Perhaps a land feature?”