Silo 49: Deep Dark (27 page)

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 face but she can see the smile in his eyes. He gives another thumbs-up to let them know the air is coming out of it 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 any be vented. The scrubber 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 checklist 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 it is sealed with a clank of metal that many in the room flinch at. Marina notes that as well. From her seat, Marina 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. It is almost anticlimactic.

Chapter 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.

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 the 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 now 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 well. 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 dipped a finger 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 glisten of the 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 were pitted and eroded within moments. The coated ones 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.

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 opening begin almost immediately and the vibration can be felt all the way to Marina’s chair. She grits her teeth and nods to an artist to capture the operators and the screen. The rest of them have their eyes as glued to the screens as everyone else. What she sees almost captures her, too.

The door has begun to open.

Chapter 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 a little too in unconscious sympathy with 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. What he has on his body increases his bulk substantially and he can ill afford to have any of it damaged, least of all his suit.

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 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.

When the opening is wide enough, the operator calls out a sharp, “Go!”, and Henry doesn’t pause for even a moment. He grabs the tank with the power wand that is waiting for him and bursts forward with long, confident strides. The tilt of the ramp looks so strange from her position in a chair that Marina feels a touch of vertigo. It lasts for 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 that 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 itself 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 the 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 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, t
he 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 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 his head 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 isn’t visible at this distance but is known to exist somewhere beyond their range of sight. 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!”

Chapter Five

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

It’s the bouncing that is 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 they are not exactly even. 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 of course, 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, “Five 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 frail and slow and lucky to get done what needed doing before they shuffled off, sucked down their poppy extract, and collapsed behind the silo where no one inside can see them. No one has ever taken off like this and it is breathtaking and 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 a darker shadow on the ground at such a great distance 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?”

Marina nods, her mouth tight. This is more than they had expected. She and the rest of the Historians had assumed that the blotch on the map marked ‘Catchment Lake’
was far away. Further than this anyway. But the land is sloping downward a little in front of Henry. Even she can see that. She plucks his sleeve to regain his attention and he tears his gaze from the screen reluctantly.

“Young man, I want you to focus on that feature. It may be very important. The
distance
is what I want most of all. If you can get anything about it on paper then you
must
.”

Marina tries to put the import of what she wants in her words and it appears to have worked because the young man’s expression turns grave. “I will. I will get everything that can be gotten. You can count on me, ma’am.”

She gives his arm a little pat and shoos him back with a wave. “Good, good. See me directly after so that I can take down your impressions before they fade.”

He nods and goes back to his seat, almost immediately setting his writing stick to a fresh sheet of paper. Marina looks back at the view and thinks that the shadow is clearer now, darker. Time passes and she finds that she is getting used to the bouncing scene, her own body straining and relaxing as if she were the one running.

The sound feed from Henry’s helmet is limited to his breathing and short acknowledgements of the times as they are called out. Ten minutes, fifteen and then twenty minutes pass and then Henry is directed to stop and look at his suit. He holds out his arms and looks at his legs and the murmurs in the room increase in volume as the suit engineers discuss what they are seeing.

Henry is covered with a fine layer of dust that has glued itself to him via the slippery film. It is only the finest of the grains that have stuck and his suit looks almost as tan as the Sheriff’s in places. What is worrisome is the ragged look of the suit along the front of his thighs, on his forearms and on the back side
s of his hands. To Marina, it almost looks fuzzy.

Marina sees Henry’s reflection better now that he is standing still and sees that he is sweating. A small computer fan inside the helmet is keeping it from fogging up, but it doesn’t do much to
ease the heat that builds up inside quickly.

Marina is sure that this is the cool part of the year because the days are at their shortest. The single volume of the Legacy they have describes the solar system and they have been able to learn and confirm this much in thirty years. Even so, he is wearing a lot of layers and keeping most of his heat inside.

The operator asks for a close up of his arm again and then the suit engineers give their verdict. The operator pauses, as if he doesn’t like what he’s being told to say. He shakes his head, but leans toward the microphone anyway. “Henry, that suit looks good enough to keep going. But keep an eye on your arms and hands. At the first sight of red you turn around. Got it?”

Henry nods inside the helmet and then says, “Got it!” He is running at full speed almost immediately and the sound his feet make on the rough ground sounds a bit like someone chewing a mouth full of seeds.

The council medic is clearly upset with the suit engineers and pushes one of them aside to speak to the operations crew. He raises his voice enough for the council members to hear, which means that everyone can hear him. “His suit is one thing, his endurance is another. He isn’t going to be able to run back as fast as he ran out there. It’s a pretty simple equation. He shouldn’t stay out until he sees red. He should turn back before that.” He pauses and jerks his hand toward the screen where Henry’s breathing sounds out loudly like a second opinion. “Anyone disagree?”

Marina watches them make up their minds and she can see the battles going on inside each of them. A movement out of the corner of her eye draws her attention. It is the artist she assigned to monitor the feature in the distance. He is standing, jaws agape while he stares at the screen and
then he starts to make a choking noise.

As she whips her head back toward the screen, Henry’s voice sounds out as do a few others in the room. Henry’s is amplified and dominates the weaker voices inside. “Do you see that? Does anyone see that?” He sounds almost afraid and his fuzzy looking arm rises and points toward a spot in the distance, far to the left of the jagged shape he’s been aiming for.

She does see it. Everyone sees it. A chair falls backward and clangs on the floor. The operator shakes out of what is gripping them all first and slams the talk button on his microphone. “We see it, Henry! Describe it for us so we know we’re seeing what you’re seeing!”

Henry is still breathing heavy and his words come out tight in between his gulps of air. “It’s blue. It’s a patch of blue. There’s brown around it, like maybe the blue is past a hole of some kind in the dirt. I can’t describe it. It’s moving though.”

His pointing finger draws a line in the air, up and down. He says, “It’s changing shape. Getting longer and skinnier.”

One of the artists calls out, “Oh no! I think
it’s going!”

Marina stumbles from her chair, hips grinding with pain, and yells toward the operator. “Get the direction! Don’t let him turn until we have a direction!” She can see that the patch is disappearing and knows they will never be able to precisely identify where it was once it is gone if he moves
even the slightest amount.

The operations crew and two of the artists spring into action. Marina just stares at the shrinking patch of blue. It is already less blue than before, smudged with the brown of the dusty wind and not nearly as brilliant a shade. She can hear Henry’s sound of distress as the last streamers of blue
abruptly disappear. It sounds like a sob and she can see in his reflection the grief there, even on only the upper half of his face.

The operator turns to the room and shouts, “We’ve got it! The direction! We’ve got it!”

The room erupts in yells and shouts and laughter and tears. It is a frantic scene and that is bad. They still have a runner out there.

Marina lifts her metal chair and bangs it on the ground several times to get the attention of the room. When the operator, who has jumped up and started hugging the other console operators, finally turns to her she says, “Bring our runner home.”