Lukas set down the glass and picked up the cloth napkin. He wiped his mouth and thought about this. “Well, I hope you’re not talking weeks from now. I feel like I’ve got years of—”
A buzzing noise cut him off. Lukas froze, the napkin falling out of his hand and flopping to the tray.
Bernard startled away from the server like it had physically shocked him, or as if its black metallic skin had grown suddenly warm.
“Goddammit!” he said, banging the server with his fist. He fumbled inside his coveralls for his master key.
Lukas forced himself to take a bite of food, to act normal. Bernard had grown more and more agitated by the constant ringing of the server. It made him irrational. It was like living with his father again, back before the tub-gin finally bore him a hole beneath the potatoes.
“I fucking swear,” Bernard grumbled, working the series of locks in sequence. He glanced over at Lukas, who slowly chewed a piece of meat, unable suddenly to even taste it.
“I’ve got a project for you,” he said, wiggling the last lock free—which Lukas knew could stick a bit. “I want you to add a panel on the back here, just a simple LED array. Figure out some code so we can see who’s calling us. I wanna know if it’s important or if we can safely ignore it.”
He yanked the back panel off the server and set it noisily against the front of server forty, behind him. Lukas took another sip of water while Bernard peered into the machine’s dark and cavernous interior, studying the blinking lights above the little communication jacks. The black guts of the server tower and its frantic buzzing drowned out Bernard’s whispered curses.
He pulled his head out, which was bright red with anger, and turned to Lukas, who set his cup on his tray. “In fact, what I want right here is two lights.” Bernard pointed to the side of the tower. “A red light if it’s silo 17 calling. Green if it’s anyone else. You got that?”
Lukas nodded. He looked down at his tray and started cutting a potato in half, thinking suddenly of his father. Bernard turned and grabbed the server’s rear panel.
“I can pop that back on.” Lukas mumbled this around a hot mouthful of potatoes; he breathed out steam to keep his tongue from burning, swallowed, and chased it with water.
Bernard left the panel where it was. He turned and glared angrily into the pit of the machine, which continued to buzz and buzz, the overhead lights winking in alarm. “Good idea,” he said. “Maybe you can knock this project out first thing.”
Finally, the server quit its frantic calls, and the room fell silent save for the clinking of Lukas’s fork on his plate. This was like the moments of rye-stench quiet from his youth. Soon—just like his father passing out on the kitchen floor or in the bathroom—Bernard would leave.
As if on cue, his caster and boss stood, the head of IT again throwing Lukas into darkness as he blocked the overhead lights.
“Enjoy your dinner,” he said. “I’ll have Peter come by later for the dishes.”
Lukas jabbed a row of beans with his fork. “Seriously? I thought this was lunch.” He popped them into his mouth.
“It’s after eight,” Bernard said. He adjusted his coveralls. “Oh, and I spoke with your mother today.”
Lukas set his fork down. “Yeah?”
“I reminded her that you were doing important work for the silo, but she really wants to see you. I’ve talked with Sims about allowing her in here—”
“Into the server room?”
“Just inside. So she can see that you’re okay. I’d set it up elsewhere, but Sims thinks it’s a bad idea. He’s not so sure how strong the allegiance is among the techs. He’s still trying to ferret out any source of leaks—”
Lukas scoffed. “Sims is paranoid. None of our techs are gonna side with those greasers. They’re not going to betray the silo, much less you.” He picked up a bone and picked the remaining meat with his teeth.
“Still, he has me convinced to keep you as safe as possible. I’ll let you know if I can set something up so you can see her.”
Bernard leaned forward and squeezed Lukas’s shoulder. “Thanks for being patient. I’m glad to have someone under me who understands how important this job is.”
“Oh, I understand completely,” Lukas said. “Anything for the silo.”
“Good.” Another squeeze of his hand, and Bernard stood. “Keep reading the Order. Especially the sections on insurrections and uprisings. I want you to learn from this one just in case, God forbid, it ever happens on your watch.”
“I will,” Lukas said. He set down the clean bone and wiped his fingers on the napkin. Bernard turned to go.
“Oh—” Bernard stopped and turned back to him. “I know you don’t need me to remind you, but under no circumstances are you to answer this server.” He jabbed his finger at the front of the machine. If his hand had been a gun like Peter Billings carried, Lukas could imagine him emptying it into the thing. “I haven’t cleared you with the other IT heads yet, so your position could be in…well, grave danger if you were to speak with any of them before the induction.”
“Are you kidding?” Lukas shook his head. “Like I want to talk with anyone who makes you nervous. No frickin’ thanks.”
Bernard smiled and wiped at his forehead. “You’re a good man, Lukas. I’m glad I’ve got you.”
“And I’m glad to serve,” Lukas said. He reached for another rib and smiled up at his caster while Bernard beamed down at him. Finally, the older man turned to go, his boots ringing across the steel grates and fading toward that massive door that held Lukas prisoner among the machines and all their secrets.
Lukas ate and listened as Bernard’s new code was keyed into the lock, a cadence of familiar but unknown beeps—a code Lukas no longer possessed.
For your own good, Bernard had told him. He chewed a piece of fat as the heavy door clanged shut, the red lights below his feet and down the ladderway blinking off.
Lukas dropped the bone onto his plate. He pushed the potatoes aside, fighting the urge to gag at the sight of them. Setting the tray on the grating, he pulled his feet out of the ladderway and moved to the back of the open and quiet server.
The headphones slid easily out of their pouch. He pulled them down over his ears, his palms brushing the three-week growth of beard on his face. Grabbing the cord, he slotted it into the jack labeled “17.”
There was a series of beeps as the call was placed. He imagined the buzzing on the other side, the flashing lights.
Lukas waited, unable to breathe.
“Hello?”
The voice sang in his earphones. Lukas smiled.
“Hey,” he said.
He sat down, leaned back against server 40, and got more comfortable.
“How’s everything going over there?”
6
• Silo 18 •
Walker waved his arms over his head as he attempted to explain his new theory for how the radio probably worked.
“So the sound, these transmissions, they’re like ripples in the air, you see?” He chased the invisible voices with his fingers. Above him, the third large antenna he’d built in two days hung suspended from the rafters. “These ripples run up and down the wire, up and down—” He gesticulated the length of antenna. “—which is why longer is better. It snags more of them out of the air.”
But if these ripples are everywhere, then why aren’t we catching any?
Walker bobbed his head and wagged his finger in appreciation. It was a good question. A damn good question. “We’ll catch them this time,” he said. “We’re getting close.” He adjusted the new amplifier he’d built, one much more powerful than the tiny thing in Hank’s old hip radio. “Listen,” he said.
A crackling hiss filled the room, like someone twisting fistfuls of plastic sheeting.
I don’t hear it.
“That’s because you aren’t being quiet. Listen.”
There. It was faint, but a crunch of transmitted noise emerged from the hiss.
I heard it!
Walker nodded with pride. Less from the thing he was building and more for his bright understudy. He glanced at the door, made sure it was still closed. He only spoke with Scottie when it was closed.
“What I don’t get is why I can’t make it clearer.” He scratched his chin. “Unless it’s because we’re too deep in the earth—”
We’ve always been this deep, Scottie pointed out. That sheriff we met years ago, he was always talking on his radio just fine.
Walker scratched the stubble on his cheek. His little shadow, as usual, had a good point.
“Well, there is this one little circuit board I can’t figure out. I think it’s supposed to clean up the signal. Everything seems to pass through it.” Walker spun around on his stool to face the workbench, which had become dominated by all the green boards and colorful tangles of wires needed for this most singular project. He lowered his magnifier and peered at the board in question. He imagined Scottie leaning in for a closer inspection.
What’s this sticker?
Scottie pointed to the tiny dot of a white sticker with the number “18” printed on it. Walker was the one who had taught Scottie that it’s always okay to admit when you didn’t know something. If you couldn’t do this, you would never truly know anything.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But you see how this little board slotted into the radio with ribbon cables?”
Scottie nodded.
“It’s like it was meant to be swapped out. Like maybe it burns up easy. I’m thinking this is the part that’s holding us up, like a blown fuse.”
Can we bypass it?
“Bypass it?” Walker wasn’t sure what he meant.
Go around it. In case it’s burned out. Short it.
“We might blow something else. I mean, it wouldn’t be in here if it weren’t truly needed.” Walker thought for a minute. He wanted to add that the same could be said of Scottie, of the boy’s calming voice. But then, he never was good at telling his shadow how he felt. Only what he knew.
Well, that’s what I would try—
There was a knock at the door followed by the squeal of hinges left purposefully loud. Scottie melted into the shadows beneath the workbench, his voice trailing off in the hiss of static from the speakers.
“Walk, what the hell’s going on here?”
He swiveled around on his stool, the lovely voice and harsh words soldered together as only Shirly could fuse them. She came into his workshop with a covered tray, a thin-lipped frown of disappointment on her face.
Walker lowered the volume on the static. “I’m trying to fix the—”
“No, what’s this nonsense I hear about you not eating?” She set the tray in front of him and pulled off the cover, releasing the steam off a plate of corn. “Did you eat your breakfast this morning, or did you give it to someone else?”
“That’s too much,” he said, looking down at three or four rations of food.
“Not when you’ve been giving yours away it isn’t.” She slapped a fork into his hand. “Eat. You’re about to fall out of your coveralls.”
Walker stared at the corn. He stirred the food with his fork, but his stomach was cramped beyond hunger. He felt like he’d gone long enough that he’d never be hungry again. The cramp would just tighten and tighten into a little fist and then he’d be just fine forever—
“Eat, dammit.”
He blew on a bite of the stuff, had no desire to consume it, but put some in his mouth to make Shirly happy.
“And I don’t want to hear that any of my men are hanging around your door sweet-talking you, okay? You are not to give them your rations. Got that? Take another bite.”
Walker swallowed. He had to admit, the burn of the food felt good going down. He gathered up another small bite. “I’ll be sick if I eat all this,” he said.
“And I’ll murder you if you don’t.”
He glanced over at her, expecting to see her smiling. But Shirly didn’t smile anymore. Nobody did.
“What the hell is that noise?” She turned and surveyed the workshop, hunting for the source of it.
Walker set down his fork and adjusted the volume. The knob was soldered onto a series of resistors; the knob itself was called a potentiometer. He had a sudden impulse to explain all of this, anything to keep from eating. He could explain how he had figured out the amplifier, how the potentiometer was really just an adjustable resistor, how each little twist of the dial could hone the volume to whatever he—
Walker stopped. He picked up his fork and stirred his corn. He could hear Scottie whispering from the shadows.
“That’s better,” Shirly said, referring to the reduced hiss. “That’s a worse sound than the old generator used to make. Hell, if you can turn that down, why ever have it up so loud?”
Walker took a bite. While he chewed, he set down his fork and grabbed his soldering iron from its stand. He rummaged in a small parts bin for another scrap potentiometer.
“Hold these,” he told Shirly around his food. He showed her the wires hanging off the potentiometer and lined them up with the sharp silver prods from his multimeter.
“If it means you’ll keep eating.” She pinched the wires and the prods together between her fingers and thumbs.
Walker scooped up another bite, forgetting to blow on it. The corn burned his tongue. He swallowed without chewing, the fire melting its way through his chest. Shirly told him to slow down, to take it easy. He ignored her and twisted the knob of the potentiometer. The needle on his multimeter danced, letting him know the part was good.
