by R F Hurteau
Sylvia was thankful that her own family got by well enough to avoid that particular fate. The apartment she called home might be a bit cramped for five adults, but she tried to think of it as cozy. In the Edge, as complaints of vandalism and service calls for repairs rose, the Civil Engineering department had been overwhelmed. Rather than increase its workers, Sigil had instead phased it out of existence. Sylvia had never ventured to the Edge to see just how bad it must have been to have caused a whole Sigil department to crumble. That had been before her time, and it was only getting worse. For that matter, she’d never even been to all of the domes.
In a world confined to five operational domes, she had voluntarily shrunken her own existence to only two.
A pleasant smell of vegetables and herbs wafted through the door as she opened it. Her mother, Martha, was in the kitchen chopping carrots to add to a bubbling pot on the tiny, single-burner hot plate. She looked up when Sylvia entered, eyes widening with surprise as she glanced at the clock. “I wasn’t expecting you for hours!” her mother declared, not unkindly.
“I know! I’m sorry I won’t be much help, though. I had to bring a lot of work home with me.”
She showed her mother the great stack of paperwork before she folded down the table and began spreading it out. “Hello, Nana,” she called down the short hallway to where an old woman sat, immersed in a pile of mending. Her grandmother looked up and gave a little wave in response.
“I can do my work in here if that’s all right,” Sylvia offered. “Keep you company?” Her mother nodded.
Their apartment was comprised of four small rooms. The kitchen was also the dining area, with a table that folded up out of the way when not in use. Six mismatched folding chairs leaned against the beige wall beneath the table, a long, dark scuff mark delineating their usual resting spots. Along the opposite side sat a sink and a refrigerator that, despite its small size, was still pitifully empty. There was a small prep area as well, above which narrow cupboards housed their dinnerware.
Even though they were only able to cook one thing at a time, Sylvia’s mother had a soft spot for pots and pans. A variety of them hung from hooks that spanned the length of the ceiling, a collection that her father had acquired through trading over the years. As a child, these unnecessary trinkets had always irked Sylvia, who had been taught in school that necessity was all that Sanctuary’s citizens required, and that anything beyond that was waste born of pride. However, over time she’d come to realize that this was how her father expressed his love: through warped pans and soup pots with discolored bottoms. She wondered for a fleeting moment if anyone would ever love her that much.
There was a narrow hall beside the kitchen that led to the den, with a bedroom on either side. Her Nana slept in the den at night on a rigid sofa that had long ago given up any pretense of being comfortable. Although Sylvia had tried to convince her to take one of the bunks countless times before, Nana had always replied that the firm surface was good for her back.
Sylvia laughed each time she heard this, because the beds were not much softer than the sofa. The mattresses were thin and sat on a wire frame that always sagged too much in the middle.
Still smiling at the memory, Sylvia relaxed a little, enjoying the sounds and smells of her mother’s cooking as she sifted through the papers, trying to decide where to start.
Application for temporary sales stall. Sylvia gave a small sigh. That one was easy enough to contend with.
In small, neat letters she wrote “Denied” across the top of the page and set it aside. She didn’t need to consult the proposed map of D1’s square to know that all available vendor spaces had been filled months ago. She’d wanted to get her father a space but he’d declined, saying it would appear to be favoritism.
“It is favoritism,” she’d countered. “My job doesn’t have many perks, so why not take advantage of them when they come up?” But she’d dropped the subject after a while, giving the stall to another in the long line of hopefuls.
There were several more of these in the stack and Sylvia, with a twinge of regret, dutifully denied each as she came to it. She was also able to square away a couple of Material Requisition forms from various decorating committees and one strange request for the temporary enlargement of a North Wing doorframe.
Requisition for additional workforce personnel. That was an odd one. She skimmed the page, wondering who could possibly be looking for more personnel during the celebrations. Most departments were paring down their staff as much as possible to allow their workers to attend the festivities.
Sylvia found the information she was looking for—Tube Maintenance. That makes sense, she reasoned. It was likely that the Tube would need some extra hands during such a high traffic event. She read on. Under special requests it read, “Theran only.”
“Huh,” Sylvia muttered, surprised. It was rare for Humans to be denied work in jobs as undesirable as “Tube Maintenance.”
She was unable to ponder it further. At that moment the door opened and her younger brother entered the apartment, tossing his jacket toward the back of her chair with a casual flick of his wrist. He missed and it slid to the floor instead.
“Pick it up!” their mother snapped, and he hurried to oblige.
His fiery red hair and pale complexion, comforting and familiar to Sylvia, were dramatically different than the bronze skin and deep brown locks the rest of the family shared. Her family had adopted Ben as a toddler. Both of his parents had died in a freak accident in the Agricultural dome. She had been six at the time, and he had filled a hole in her heart that she hadn’t realized was there before. Sylvia had thought of him as her brother ever since.
She’d often sensed a bit of jealousy from the other kids growing up; siblings were unheard of in this generation, thanks to the one-child policy. Sylvia recalled an incident when another girl at school had pointed out that Ben wasn’t her real brother.
She had promptly punched the girl in the nose and no one had ever dared to bring it up again.
“Hey, Syl!” Ben gave her a broad grin, pulling out a chair to join her.
“Hey Ben. How was your day?”
He shrugged. “It was okay, I guess. We’ve been decommissioning a whole bunch of older model pods for reclamation.”
Sylvia groaned. “I wish things were slowing down for me, too,” she pouted, reaching out to fan the edge of the pile of yet unfinished applications with her thumb. “I could do with being a bit bored for a while. I mean, the Anniversary happens every year. Why does everybody wait until the very last minute before requesting stuff? How come no one has figured out yet that that isn’t how it works?”
Ben leaned forward and spread his arms over her work, scooping it all into a messy pile and standing up before she could stop him. He walked away despite her feeble sound of protest.
“The celebration will be over and done before you know it!” he declared from the bedroom, emerging empty-handed. “Just a few more of these stressful, overworked days and it’ll all be behind you. But for now, let’s eat!”
Sylvia hadn’t realized how much time had passed. Their mother was grumbling to herself as she carried bowls to the table.
“Late again, no respect, I slave over a hot stove and he can’t even be bothered to come home while it’s still warm. Chatting, I suspect. Always a talker, that man...”
She was still mumbling as she walked back to the kitchen for another bowl, which she brought down the hall to her mother-in-law.
Stirring the steaming liquid thoughtfully, Sylvia turned to her brother. “Ben, did you get a chance to meet Felix before he transferred departments?”
Ben nodded. “The Halfsie, right? Sure, he was great. Really funny. Could do with a little of his humor these days.”
“Do you think I should have him speak at the ceremonies?”
Her brother looked startled. “About pod manufactu
ring? Who the heck wants to hear about pod manufacturing?”
She shook her head. “No, about being the Observatory Attendant.”
“Oh, that.”
He stopped talking to take a bite but recoiled with a hiss as the hot spoon seared his tongue. He was still running it along his teeth, trying to restore sensation, when he finally replied. “Uh, I guess?”
“Not exactly a vote of confidence.”
“Well, it’s not that, I mean, like I said. He’s a funny guy. But, you know—he is a Halfsie.”
“So?”
“So how often does the Elder Council go parading Halfsies around at parties? I’m just saying, I don’t think it would reflect well on you. Might look a little, well...rebellious.”
Sylvia hadn’t thought about it that way at all. She’d been more concerned over whether anyone would even care about the Observatory and what it was for. The fact that a Halfsie might be an unwelcome addition to the festivities hadn’t even crossed her mind.
“Oh.” The idea that someone might consider her rebellious flustered her. “I suppose you’re right.”
Not long after they had finished, Sylvia’s father arrived. He entered with a meek smile, peeking in to gauge how much trouble he was in.
“Good evening, Martha, dear,” he offered sweetly. Sylvia shot him a sympathetic glance from where she stood near the sink, washing the dishes. His eyes came to rest on the bowl of soup that sat alone on the table, and he grimaced.
“Late again!” Martha declared, brandishing a knife she’d just finished drying. Their father started offering excuses, sputtering about rusty shutters and fuel cells.
Ben and Sylvia made their way quietly out of the kitchen, neither wishing to get caught in the crossfire. As Sylvia opened the bedroom door, she glanced toward the living room where Nana was suppressing a chuckle.
Ben entered first, returning her confiscated workload from where he’d tossed it on the bed in a haphazard heap. “So, tell me about these speakers for the Anniversary. That’s new.”
Sylvia nodded. “Edwin just told me about it this morning. He gave me a list to look over.” She sniffed. “More last minute details to contend with.”
She flipped through her paperwork. “I think he left me a copy... Yep, here it is!”
She handed Ben the paper and he looked it over.
Ben’s face lit up. “Hey, Nelson! He’ll love that. You’re going to approve him, right?”
“Sure, he seems like a pretty nice kid. I was looking at his file, though, and he hasn’t been there very long. He was assigned just this year, same as you. Do you think he has enough experience to talk about Core Operations after just a few months?”
Ben shrugged dismissively, handing the list back to her. “I bet he’ll do fine. I mean, I knew everything I needed to know about Pods after the first five minutes. How hard could it be?”
“Well, manufacturing pods isn’t quite as complex as operating vital systems for all of Sanctuary.”
Ben gave a huff of righteous indignation. “Well if it isn’t that important, then why do they have so much security?”
“What do you mean?”
Ben flopped onto his small cot, the coils squeaking in resentment at the sudden weight. “Well, you know. There’s just a lot of security down there. They’ve practically got a guard overseeing every station! There are a bunch of Theran scientists always coming in and out, making changes and requests and stuff. It’s a bit annoying. Trying to do programming with a big hairy Elf breathing down your neck and people constantly asking you to change your work to do this or that.”
Sylvia considered pointing out that she’d never known an Elf who could be described as “hairy,” but that wasn’t what intrigued her. “What kind of changes?”
Sylvia knew very little about Pod Manufacturing, as they rarely required her services. During her tenure in Public Relations, no one had ever so much as inquired about it. She might not have even known the department existed if Ben hadn’t been assigned to it after his graduation.
“Well, it’s a little hard to explain,” he began, sounding rather proud of himself. “But essentially there are all these pods, and each one is a self-contained unit. They have their own generators and their own programming, and they’re all a little different. They aren’t hooked up to any network, so whenever someone needs something changed, it has to be done one at a time.”
“So, there’s a lot of them?”
Ben nodded. “Oh, loads. I’ve tried counting, but they move them in and out of storage so often, I’ve lost track. At least a hundred. Maybe more.”
“A hundred!” she repeated, “What do they need a hundred pods for?”
“Supposedly they’re working on all kinds of stuff. That’s why all the pods need to be set up in different ways. And of course, we’ve come up with some theories of our own, too.”
“Like what?”
“Well, they’ve said they’re working on a way to use the pods to help heal serious injuries. From what I’ve heard, there are a lot of those down in the Geothermal Plant. But,” here he leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, “I think they’re trying to develop a cure for the Sequencing.”
“What? Come on.” She studied him, searching his face for some tell that he was messing with her.
There was none. “You mean, for real?”
Ben offered another shrug. “A lot of the programming I do has to do with genetic data. It makes sense.”
“Get off it,” Sylvia was shaking her head. “Of course they need genetic data if they’re going to put people in them. They’d need it for monitoring, or something...right?”
“I guess.”
“So, what other theories do you have?”
“Well, some people think that the Council might use them to keep criminals in stasis. Suspended animation, maybe. You know, so they don’t have to waste food on them.”
A chill crept up Sylvia’s spine, pulling the hairs at the nape of her neck to attention.
“That’s an interesting idea,” she replied, but her reluctance was evident. She didn’t find it interesting in the slightest. It sounded horrifying.
“Yeah, but I don’t buy it. If they put the criminals in stasis, who will run Geo? They might also use them to suspend parts of the population in times of food shortages, though they’d need a lot more than a hundred to make a difference. They’d need thousands.”
“Oh, I hope that’s not true!” Sylvia shuddered, imagining being locked in a tiny pod, helpless and alone.
“Well, don’t worry about it.” Ben stretched and gave an exaggerated yawn. “Anyway, I’m tired. Another exciting day in Pod Manufacturing tomorrow! I need my beauty rest.”
“Right.” Sylvia stood up, yawning herself. “Me, too. Goodnight, Ben.”
“G’night, Syl.”
She moved to the door to turn off the light and listened, chancing a peek out into the hall, which was quiet. She spotted her father in the kitchen, a sullen, mournful look in his eyes. He was eating his cold soup, her mother standing over him with her arms crossed, the hint of a smile on her face at the sight of justice being done.
Sylvia hit the switch and moved to her bed. Too tired to change out of her uniform, she tossed the papers on her bedside table, laid down, and fell asleep.
Three
Cause and Effect
STRICTLY speaking, people weren’t supposed to walk along the Tube tracks. Ripley and Felix, however, weren’t the first poor souls ever to find themselves kicked off the Tube, wandering the dim walkway that followed the gentle curve of the tunnel. The domes measured a little over a mile in diameter, and there was about another mile of track connecting each of them to the next. The cooler temperatures below ground made their walk of shame feel a lot longer to Ripley.
He knew there were vagrants down here as well, but he didn’t
expect to cross paths with any. They tucked themselves into dark corners and hollows in the walls where Security was less apt to find and detain them. Vagrancy was considered a crime in Sanctuary, but Ripley didn’t understand why Sigil couldn’t just leave these unfortunates alone. From what he could tell, living in the Tube tunnels was punishment enough.
Sometimes, when he wanted to be by himself, Ripley would come down here to explore. He rarely wandered very far, though, and it had been years since he’d had that kind of spare time. Maintenance crews kept the main line well lit, but many of the lights in the tunnels that branched off had burnt out long ago. Just like in the Observatory, it seemed that no one had the time to worry about the hidden underbelly of the city. Over ten thousand people lived in Sanctuary. Most of them, Ripley felt certain, had no idea of the sorry state of the transportation system.
Sometimes small, handwritten signs were posted beside the mouths of the tunnels. They declared “D5 Market Station” or “D1 Maintenance,” or “No Exit,” evidence of those who had come before and attempted to mark their path. Most had no such signage, their subterranean depths left neglected and forgotten, their mysteries undiscovered.
Felix looked around with amazement. “Wow, this place is kind of a dump, huh?”
This remark earned him a scathing glance.
“It hasn’t changed,” Ripley replied in a clipped tone. Felix had accompanied him down here plenty of times before. Ripley had always been keenly aware of how others mistreated his friend, and the tunnels had offered a brief reprieve from all of that.
“Sure it has. As I recall, it used to be full of treasures. Now it’s just full of junk.”
“It’s all the same stuff as it’s always been.”
