Ann Christy - Silo 49 - Deep Dark

She chewed thoughtfully on a sandwich, wide wedges of flat amaranth bread smeared with peanut butter, and thought about the boxes and their varied contents. She considered how many more of these deliveries she would have. At least one for every level and probably more than one load for levels thick with residences could be counted on.

Levels dedicated primarily to an activity and having few living spaces would bring scant hauls, she supposed. She hoped it was less scant that what she had unpacked so far from Level 50. Even so, every scrap counted.

While she munched on a small cucumber she’d managed to wrangle from the cafeteria worker, Marina wondered why the mines didn’t provide silver and where the silver they used now originally came from. Did the mines once provide it?

When she first realized there might be a problem she had taken a full week of time for a special project and gone to the main administration offices of the Down Deep to research. She then trekked back up to confirm her findings with Supply and finally, to the mids for a last confirmation at the Comptroller’s office.

No one at any of the places she’d visited knew where the silver originated. It was a silo mystery but the answer she’d received at all three places was the same one used to explain all such questions. What those within the silo need, the silo has provided . It also happened to be the third tenet and an easy answer rather than, perhaps, the correct one.

It could mean the item was brought in by the First People when the silo called them inside from the wilderness and away from the dangers of the Others outside. It could mean that the silo provided it once in some other fashion and expected it to last. It could mean anything depending on who you asked.

Lunch finished, Marina reigned in her wandering thoughts and directed them back toward the unfinished project on her bench. She purposefully focused on the detailed work that needed to be done and the hours passed swiftly. The comforting hum of her work lamp kept her company. The even tone was punctuated only by the tiny sounds of a snipped wire or the brief hiss of a soldering iron. She loved this part of her work.

When she had finally completed the repairs she snapped the lid closed, rubbed out the initials of the last person to repair the piece and marked her own in their stead. As she rubbed the ink from her fingers she realized she didn’t know the person those initials belonged to. She mused that one day someone who wouldn’t know her name would do the same until she too had disappeared from the silo, one set of initials at a time.

She gathered her things and left, locking the door behind her. The work room was hers alone and would be untouched till she returned. It was not shared between a day and a night shift as it might have been long ago. Some of the rooms were empty all the time or were used as an extra room for special projects by senior Fabbers. If one simply counted the name slots next to each workroom door it could probably have provided jobs for three times their current number. But having that many people was in the long past, if it had even been so. Marina had her doubts about that.

One of the oldest of the fabbers actually lived in the room across from his workroom, but he was the only one who did such a thing. It had been more than once that she encountered him returning from his pre-shift ablutions in the bathroom meant to serve this entire section of workers. He was no longer capable of making much progress on the stairs and the shadows on this level took turns bringing his meals and taking his laundry.

He seemed very happy with his living situation and had the break room all to himself most of the time. He wrote poetry when it was quiet during the dim time, though he had yet to show it to anyone that Marina was aware of. He didn’t look like a poet to Marina. Weren’t all poets young, earnest and in love or freshly heartbroken from having been in love?

Would she do that at some point in her future? Would she one day just decide she could not take the stairs up to her compartment and send for a bed instead? She still had a husband and a teenager at home for now, but who knew what the future might hold. She very much doubted there would be poetry though. That bored her. It was strange to feel so old that this could be contemplated yet still be young enough to have a sixteen year old girl who needed her parents.

Marina pocketed her keys and checked the time on the clock in the hallway. She was surprised to find it was not as late as it felt. It was, in fact, more than an hour until her regular shift should end. Her sense of time was normally quite good and she usually stepped out of her workspace each day within a small fifteen minute window of time. She considered turning around and starting the next project on her work list but that would mean leaving it barely started.

She tapped her foot in annoyance, the sound echoing through the hallway and bouncing back from the metal buffer doors at either end. She decided instead to catalog a bit more of the delivery before going home. Her husband and daughter were working their own shift for another two hours and then they would have to make the descent from the deputy station to their compartment twenty-five levels below unless they happened to be on a call somewhere closer. She could easily travel up four levels and still have a meal prepared for them by the time they got to the compartment, even if she worked late.

The Reclamation Room was cool and comfortable. The air smelled clean and vaguely like cardboard. It was far more noticeable after the hours breathing solder fumes in her workroom. After what the porter had said earlier, she appreciated it anew.

She dumped her things on the chair, opened the second of the large boxes and began to work. It was a better haul than the previous box even after completing only the first layer of smaller boxes. Nothing needed to be returned and a few pieces would provide excellent yields of pure silver. One was a heavy bracelet worked with exquisite flowers and another was a heavy silver chain that had completely filled the smaller box to the rim.

When she pulled up the first box of the second layer she thought she had found another chain because of the weight. When she opened it, she looked down and had no idea what the object was. It was so beautiful that she sucked in a short loud breath that broke the quiet of the room. Hesitant about touching the object, she instead pulled out the slip of paper tucked in beside it and read the neat and very precise writing.

Genevieve Hardi

Floor 50 — Section 3 — Compartment 4

Pocket Watch (It belonged to my husband, now deceased. It belonged to one of his parents before him and a parent before and so on, I think. It doesn’t work but I know it is silver.)

“Pocket watch,” Marina said softly into the empty room.

She had no idea what that might mean. Watches were timepieces that could be worn, though she knew of none other than those displayed in the Memoriam. And she certainly didn’t know of any that might be owned by an individual.

She assumed a pocket watch must be a time piece made just for pockets. She eased the heavy piece out of the box and examined it carefully under the task light. It didn’t appear to be a clock at first glance but then she saw a tiny button protruding from the side and pressed it with a fingertip. One side of the round object flew open in her hand and inside she saw the face of a clock, beautifully rendered with Xs, Vs and Is instead of numbers.

In fancy script on the face she read the word ‘Waltham’. Perhaps that is who the object belonged to or perhaps it was like the names she found in obscure places on many of the parts she worked on. Names like General Dynamic, Westinghouse and Intel she found on parts for no apparent reason.