C James - Dome Six

“What what is?” Elle asked.

“This charade. You all are just as scared as everyone else, and you should be. Because getting rid of me won’t solve the real problem.”

“And what is that?”

He knocked on the table. “This table’s 100 years old.” Then he nodded toward the window. “So’s that window. So are all the buildings outside. But people? They have a 75-year shelf life.”

“We all know the law. What’s your point?” asked Elle.

“So what happens when this place passes its shelf life? You don’t have a plan for that, but I’m willing to bet Cytocorp does.”

“There’s no reason to think Cytocorp still exists,” Elle said. “Or the other Domes.”

“I see. So, what happens if the Exchangers really fail? Or the shield goes down, or we run out of water?”

“Worrying about emergency contingencies is Authority business, not yours,” said Downing. A few of the others shifted nervously in their seats, suggesting this wasn’t a frequent topic of discussion.

“And we should just trust that you have it all figured out.”

“I think that’s enough,” Downing growled through clenched teeth. Hideki’s line of questioning was getting to him just like he knew it would. He looked to Elle to close the proceedings, but her eyes never left Hideki.

“What happened to the mouse?” Elle asked. The Directors’ heads swiveled to her then anxiously back to him.

“What happened to the mouse is my business,” he said, looking directly at Downing with a sly grin. “Not yours.”

“Wait, so the Box doesn’t actually do anything?” asked Aaron.

“Hideki thinks it blocks whatever signal keeps the red Macros inert,” Owen replied softly as he removed a sweet potato from the container of wet gravel and plunked it into the crate at his feet. “And keep your voice down. Sheesh.”

“Sorry. It’s just so weird. Just one killed the mouse, like instantly?”

“Yep.”

“And you think we all have them?”

“Yep.”

“And this from the man who supposedly dug it out of his own leg?” Aaron asked.

Owen’s crate was full. He left Aaron hanging and lined up at Freddy’s dump station while the massive metal buckets crawled down one after the other. You had to lean against a metal railing and toss your plants inside as the bucket passed, then go rejoin your teammate in the row. Two people were in front of him. He met Freddy’s drooping eyes.

“Freddy, you look tired today, pal,” said Owen. “Go grab a nap. We’ll keep an eye on things here.”

Freddy chuckled and rubbed his eyes. “Welsh, I might take you up on that if I didn’t think you yutzes would turn this place to ash.”

“Only one way to know for sure,” Owen joked.

A presence behind him made Owen turn to see who it was. It was Adan, half of the dimwit duo Rick and Adan. Though they’d kept their distance, it didn’t seem to change their attitudes. In fact, if anything, Adan seemed worse.

“Let’s go, Welsh,” Freddy said.

Owen gripped the edges of his crate tightly in his vise-like hands and prepared to toss the plants in the conveyor bucket coming down overhead. Just as it drew level with him, he stepped forward with his left foot to dump it.

But the moment he stretched out with his arms, he felt a shove in the small of his back. Unable to arrest his forward momentum, he tumbled headlong over the short railing and fell with a metallic thud into the gigantic metal container. His head cracked the side of the bucket so hard he saw stars.

“Welsh!” he heard Freddy yell from overhead. He looked up just in time to see Freddy frantically pressing the kill switch that was supposed to stop the conveyor in precisely such a scenario. “Shit! Stop, goddamnit!”

But it didn’t stop. Adan’s expressionless face stared down at him for a moment then disappeared as the bucket reached level 28.

He scrambled to right himself. He knew the railing on the next level down would be there in a moment, and he either had to try and grab it and haul himself onto the level or wait for the right opportunity. If it never came, he’d wind up all the way down in the FPC and be a laughing stock the rest of his life.

He decided to go for the railing.

Owen rolled to the side just as the railing passed and grabbed for it with his free hand. He latched on as the bucket he was in fell away. That got the attention of the supervisor and all the workers, who all seemed to realize what was about to happen.

The next bucket was coming fast. Owen needed to either pull himself up and over the railing immediately or let go and fall back into the bucket.

The moment he went for it, he immediately wished he hadn’t.

“Watch it—” said the level 28 supervisor, lurching toward him.

Owen pulled with all his might while his feet struggled for purchase. He managed to swing his right leg up on the railing, but it was already too late. The next bucket was on him. If he didn’t do something, he’d be sliced in half or crushed. He pulled his leg back off the railing and let go.

The bandages began at the shoulder and disappeared under the blanket. Owen blinked away sleep and pulled it back to note, with a dazed sort of curiosity, that it now ended just above the elbow.

The pain was white-hot and screaming for attention. He’d let go and fallen into a conveyor bucket. In falling, he’d bought himself time. But his right arm was hanging off the side of the bucket. His hand got wedged in some metal gap. He remembered being lifted up and out of the bucket, his full weight wrenching the back of his elbow against something hard and unyielding as another bucket came down.

And then it stopped. The whole thing stopped. Some supervisor finally hit the kill switch half a second after. His weight plus the force of the conveyor stretched his arm beyond its limits. Things inside tore audibly. People yelled to back it up, but supervisors didn’t have that ability. They had to call down to the FPC to stop the line. Minutes passed. Pain turned to numbness, and numbness to delirium. His brain and body flipped a switch and oblivion came, warm and welcome.

A funny thought crossed his mind. What if his arm still hung limply from the bracket on level 27 or 26, just out of reach, and everyone who dumped their bin would have to see it there until it rotted away? Next to it was probably a sign reminding greenies that safety was the Authority’s highest priority, and that it had been zero days since their last accident. That would be funny.

But then he wondered how he would carry bins or plant seeds with this impediment. He was right-handed, was being the very operative word. Now he was as left-handed as they came. Anyone who saw him work a fork with his left hand could see that was bad news.

A woman came in. She looked familiar, but pretty much everyone did after a while.

“Someone’s awake. How are you feeling?”

He tried to speak but couldn’t. She reached for a small cup with a straw and placed it in his mouth. He sucked down every last drop.

“It hurts.”

“We gave you a Macro for the pain. It’ll wear off soon.”

“Well then give me another.”

“There’s not enough Cytomatrix,” she said flatly.

“But the pain…” he groaned.

“I’m sorry. Authority orders.”

“My arm is gone.” A wave of nausea hit him as though merely saying the words caused it. He winced and sucked in air. “Please. It’s already bad.”

She grimaced and went to enter some information in a tablet. He’d heard the Stores were low on Cytomatrix, but low enough that an extra Macro or two was asking too much? His arm was gone — who were Macros for if not for an amputee?