Silo 49: Flying Season for the Mis-Recorded Read online

  The tall man leaned forward and put the box down on the table, wiping his hands off on his coveralls after he did. “Others be damned, it was him.” He said it quietly and quickly, like he was out of breath. Lizbet wanted to cry.

  Her mother leaned forward and looked into the box. Her eyes got so wide that Lizbet could see white all around and her mouth hung open. She reached out and snatched at the box, grabbed something out of it and started making terrible choking noises. Then she stood up on the couch and held her hand out, gripping whatever it was out in front of her.

  The first two deputies grabbed at her mother, one of them gripping the arm that held whatever it was from the box. The fat deputy told her to drop it but it wasn’t until the taller deputy squeezed her arm so hard she yelped that she opened her hand and let the contents fall. Lizbet saw little tails of hair, brightly colored ribbons holding each tail together, like someone had cut off an entire pigtail. They fluttered to the floor and everyone in the room watched them fall with strange looks on their faces. The tall deputy helped her mother back down to the couch. She didn’t do anything to help him or stop him, she just let herself be moved, mumbling to herself quietly.

  It was quiet like that for a long while, all of them silent and looking at the little tails of hair. When the taller deputy bent to pick them up, the youngest deputy—the one by the door—made a hissing noise and whispered, “I hear something.”

  They all got tense then and the air became strangely heavy and cold. Lizbet thought about running and hiding under her bed, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from the crack in the door. The fat deputy grabbed up the box and the hair in two fast sweeps of his hands. He joined the young deputy behind the door, where they squeezed up against the wall. The other two moved so fast toward the hallway they were almost like cats. They stood there, just a few feet from her door, with their heads pressed toward the wall. Her mother just sat where she was, looking at the door.

  Lizbet saw the door to their compartment open just the smallest bit and then her father peeked in. His face was flushed like when he came home after a long delivery far away in the silo and his eyes darted around the room. His hair was messy and his face looked like it did sometimes when he got angry over nothing, pulled tight with his lips drawn into a frown. He looked around, saw her mother on the couch and pushed open the door all the way.

  “Hey, honey. Sorry I’m home so late,” he said, his voice weird like it got sometimes, like he was faking being happy when he wasn’t. He stepped into the compartment but saw the deputies behind the door only when he started to close it again.

  He slammed the door back open, bouncing it off the young deputy, and tried to run back out into the hallway but the fat deputy dropped the box and jumped on him. They both yelled when they hit the floor hard enough to make a loud thud of noise. The other two deputies came then and jumped onto her Daddy, too, trying to keep him still while he tried to push them off.

  Sometimes her Daddy scared her and sometimes she didn’t understand him, but she loved him all the same. The deputies were hurting him and that wasn’t right. Lizbet threw open her door and ran out to the living room, screaming for them to stop.

  It worked, sort of, if only for a short second. Every head in the room turned to look at her. The fat deputy got a mad look on his face and bent down close to her father’s head where it was pushed into the floor. “You have a daughter? What in silo’s name is wrong with you?”

  They all started moving again after that, like his angry words broke a spell. All the deputies except the young one—he was standing where he had been and holding his nose while blood came out between his fingers—pulled her father to his feet. They put metal bracelets on his wrists behind his back and jerked them so hard her father winced when they snapped on. The fat deputy grabbed a short chain between the bracelets and pulled it up, making her father come up on his toes and his arms fold like they did when he would pretend to be a chicken and chase her around the compartment.

  The tall deputy started digging through her father’s pockets, tossing things out and onto the floor as he finished each pocket. His chits, his kerchief, his little knife for cutting line or packing material. All of it fluttered or clinked to the floor. Then the deputy fished out another one of those little pigtails and held it up for the other deputies to see. He also pulled out her mother’s favorite scarf, the one with the pretty colors her father had given her after Lizbet was born that was only for special occasions.

  Lizbet was confused and she knew she was going to start crying. She didn’t understand everything but these men said her Daddy had killed someone and that was bad. They were holding his arms so tight and they all looked so very angry.

  The fat deputy met her eyes and he looked sad instead of mad for a moment. He said, “Katrina, take care of your daughter. She doesn’t need to see this.”

  Lizbet held out her arms to her mother when she got up from the couch. She wanted to be held, for her mother to make it alright again. She wanted to nestle in her arms and be rocked back to sleep so that when she woke up, all this would be gone and everything would be back to normal. But her mother looked right through her like she was vapor or a ghost. Instead of coming to her, she took the two extra steps past her toward her father and jumped on him. She started screeching at him, spittle spraying out of her mouth and onto her father’s face. Her father screamed in return as her nails raked deep channels down his face. Lizbet saw his face fill with red lines and blood spattered when he tried to shake her off.

  The short deputy pulled her mother off but Lizbet wasn’t looking anymore. She felt pee run down her legs onto the mats, making a dark puddle that spread even as she watched. She felt strange, like she was going to float away but that wasn’t so bad. She decided floating was better than this.

  Seven

  It was warmer tucked in behind all the empty baskets at the lift post station. Her coveralls didn’t do much to dampen the chill of concrete against her butt, but overall it wasn’t a bad spot to wait. She needed to get up to Level 82, since that was the best place for what she had in mind, but that wasn’t the direction to her quarters or the farms and there were a lot of people traveling the stairs after 25 Drums let out. Spending some time here, tucked in this dark corner, and waiting for them to clear out was fine by Lizbet.

  It didn’t take long. The last of the laughs and groups talking loudly cleared away in less than an hour, a final group of four getting tired of flirting with each other on the dark landing at last and saying their goodbyes. When it had been quiet for several minutes, she heard the staff turning over the facility to maintenance so the club could be remade once more for the shopping and theater it served when it wasn’t a club.

  After a few more long minutes, her stomach lurching as the time grew near, she eased herself out of her nest of baskets and peered down the landing to be sure it was empty. Nothing but the red lights and the deep shadows they left behind were present on the landing. She hit the stairs and took them two at a time for a few levels, working out her nervous energy. After she felt a little fatigue, she slowed down and let herself enjoy the trip, leaning out over the rails now and again to catch the upward breeze.

  It smelled of everything below. The silo’s breath smelled of farms, soil, animals and even a hint of oil. Most of all it smelled of life, the eternally renewing life of the silo. The silo was life itself. All within it were sheltered and renewed in some form or another when their present lives were over. In the silo, there was always another chance to live.

  When Level 82 rolled into sight it surprised Lizbet. The trip, which would normally seem long, was as short as a trip down the hallway. She lit from the stairs and made directly for the lift. It was shipped for the night—this being the one night every two weeks when there was no night post—and resting on the platform in a sagging pile. The gate was closed so she eased the catch open as slowly and quietly as she could after she pushed the fabric bucket aside. One tiny squeak broke the quiet as she pulled it
open but nothing happened in response and no one was around to hear it.

  Lizbet walked back near the wall where there was a straight shot to the opening and stood there, her eyes closed and her thoughts moving quickly. Strangely, there were no doubts in her mind. This really was the only option left to her. Let the silo fashion her into something new, something that people didn’t shun or shy away from. Something that wasn’t lonely and alone. All would be well.

  Lizbet shuffled forward, then ran the last few steps to the edge and launched herself through the gap in the gate. When her feet left the grate it was like the breath of the silo rising to meet her and gentle her along. It was wonderful to fly.

  Eight

  No one woke Greg when the call for a muster went out. The night shift just checked on him and the other two candidates and left them to sleep, reporting them safe and sound to the mustering clerk for their level. When it wasn’t anyone related to anyone within the confines of the race training section, no one thought twice about discussing the news. So it was with gossipy glee that Greg heard that Lizbet was dead from the mouths of those who called her, “That Other girl.”

  It was only when he’d dropped his tray and grabbed a handful of coverall on one of the race workers enjoying his breakfast and a laugh over the dead Other that the other two race candidates considered Greg’s entirely inappropriate friendship and stepped in to break it up. After that, well, the damage was done and he knew they would just continue to say nasty things when he was out of earshot.

  Danny Piper, his trainer, knocked on his door a little while after he’d been sent there. In his hand he held a note, the word “Urgent” next to Greg’s name. Danny pulled the desk chair next to the bed where Greg lay curled up on his side. For a moment he said nothing. Then he laid a gentle hand on Greg’s shoulder.

  “Greg, I’m so very sorry for your loss.” He said it kindly, like he really meant it. Greg looked at Danny through slitted eyes, wary and prepared for the words to be followed by a punch line, but all he saw in the trainer’s lined face was sympathy. He held out the letter, already opened and clearly read.

  “What does it say,” Greg asked instead of taking the proffered letter.

  “It’s from her caster, down in the farms where she worked. He says she left a note for you but he wants you to come down so he can speak with you.”

  It was painful to hear that. Greg turned his head into the pillow so that Danny wouldn’t see him cry. He had loved her, wanted to declare for her. Now she was dead and if she had left him a note, then there was no question of it being an accident. Had she known she was going to do this when they were dancing? When she had promised to see him the next morning—this morning?

  “Greg, this is very hard and I know it. There really are no words of comfort that I can give you that will take it away, but I do care and I am sorry this is happening to you.” He paused and gave Greg’s bowed shoulder a pat before settling back into the chair. “You have the day off and we’ll likely cancel the morning session tomorrow so you can attend to any planting for your friend down where she worked. I’ll leave the note right here.”

  He stood, laid the note down on Greg’s desk and slipped out of the door, closing it quietly behind him. Greg wanted to wallow and simply cry for a while, but there was too much to do for Lizbet right then for him to do that. She had no family and certainly no friends other than him. He didn’t even know if her caster would see to her planting since it wasn’t exactly a close relationship.

  It seemed like he had become suddenly old and feeble when he rose to a sitting position on his bed. His body was heavy and stiff, his mind running like sludge. Was this what grief felt like? He’d never lost anyone before. All four of his grandparents were alive, as were his aunt on one side and uncle on the other. His two sisters were well, though young and annoying, and no one he knew well had ever died that he could remember. No one he loved. If this was grief, then he had no idea how anyone survived it.

  The note was short and to the point. Written in the uncertain hand of the aged, the small letters bled into the soft frayed fibers of the paper. It was just as Danny had said. Marcus, her caster, wanted him to come down without delay. He gave his home compartment information as well as his work information and relayed that it didn’t matter what hour it was, Greg should find him. Under the note, Danny had left him something. Folded neatly into a square was a black kerchief, the color of mourning.

  Lizbet had worked in the lowest farm level, a huge distance for Greg to go from Level 34, and it would take time. He grabbed his race coveralls and tied the black kerchief around his neck. She deserved to be mourned publicly and he wouldn’t be cowed by whatever mistaken beliefs people held about her.

  His expressions during the trip and his black kerchief stalled many well-wishers and race fans from the normal greetings and encouragements. He doubted any of them knew for whom he mourned. For most it wouldn’t have even crossed their minds that it was Lizbet. Why would it? He kept his eyes firmly away from others and his feet moving.

  At the bazaar, he stopped and went directly to the booth he needed. Given that she had fallen, he didn’t know what condition Lizbet might be in, but he wanted to be sure her planting ritual went as it should. People joined the silo the same way they came into it, naked. Naked with one exception, that is. A single line of blue dye and one of green dye was marked onto the forehead before planting. It would ensure that they dreamed of the world as it should be until they were incorporated back into the life of the silo. They would be born hopeful and renewed by those dreams, no matter the form they were born into.

  The two tiny packets of dye were not expensive and it was sad to see a row of them already packaged up in a small basket to the side of the color vendor’s stall. Always ready for the next death, it seemed to Greg. He’d never had occasion to notice it before. The man at the stall noted his kerchief even before he stepped up and nodded toward the little basket.

  During the rest of the trip down to the farms Greg was very aware of the crackling of the packets in his breast pocket. They were like a weight but they also made him feel a little relieved. Greg didn’t know much about how a planting was done but it made him feel a little better to know that she would have what she needed to dream. His mind refused to think about the kind of condition Lizbet must be in. He cringed from the thought of having to see her like that. Every time the thought came, he pushed it back and thought of her smiling and dancing.

  Nine

  At the farms, he walked in without a clue as to how to find the Marcus that sent the letter. Greg hadn’t spent much time in a farm. His choice to shadow in the clean environment of his family’s food stall—tucked next to the wall on the landing where they lived—meant that his experience with farming was limited to checking for rot when a new delivery of food was made.

  It was nearing the time of darkness, when the lights would dim so the plants could rest for the night, and there were fewer people about. An old man was seated in a rickety chair near one of the plots, looking lost in thought. When Greg approached, his feet making scuffing noises on the path, the man looked up, saw the racing coveralls and seemed to brace himself.

  “I’m looking for a farmer named Marcus,” Greg said over the noise of the fans that kept the air circulating from the farms and through the rest of the silo.

  The man nodded and used his arms to brace himself on the chair as he levered himself up into a standing position. Greg watched him almost unfold himself as he did. He was a huge man, at least a head taller than Greg, even though he was bowed and a bit withered with age. His legs were probably as big around as Greg’s waist and he felt like a child standing next to the giant man.

  He held out a hand and said, “I’m Marcus. Thank you for coming right away.” When they shook hands, Marcus’ hand swallowed Greg’s.

  They stood there awkwardly for a moment, Greg not knowing what to say and feeling the discomfort of the man in front of him. Then Marcus finally looked him in the eye
and Greg saw the sadness there but something else, too. It looked like guilt or regret, perhaps both.

  “Why don’t we go on back,” Marcus said after that moment of silence. His quick glance around the farm led Greg to look, too. It was discreet, but obvious, that they were being observed and not all the looks were friendly ones.

  Greg nodded, averting his gaze from the others among the plots. He followed the old man as he made his lumbering way through the farms. As they walked, Greg found himself breathing in the scents of the farms. It was a ripe smell in the same way the baking areas smelled grainy and full. Life seemed to percolate throughout the place and the rustling of the leaves in the wind from the ventilation satisfied some primitive part of him he hadn’t known existed. It was a strange, yet entirely familiar, sort of feeling.

  When they got to the rear of the section, where the hall of shadows was, the feeling faded. Here, where the single shadows lived, the doors were decorated however the occupant saw fit. No two were alike and the feeling in the hall was a little chaotic and disordered. Marcus led him to the last door in the hallway and he gripped the handle, but stopped before he opened the door. He turned to Greg and said, “This is her room. I didn’t move anything but the note she left made me think you two were close. Were you?”

  Greg nodded, feeling the pain in his throat from the tears he held back.