Wool Omnibus Edition (Wool 1 - 5)

by Hugh Howey

  “How much time have you had in the suit labs?”

  The voice had changed, relaxed somewhat. Lukas wondered if the ceremony was over. Was that it? Had he passed? He blew out his held breath, hoping the microphone didn’t pick it up, and tried to relax.

  “Not much, sir. Bernar— Uh, my boss, he’s wanting me to schedule time in the labs after, you know—”

  He looked to Bernard, who was pinching one side of his glasses and watching him.

  “Yes. I do know. How is that problem in your lower levels going?”

  “Um, well, I’m only kept apprised of the overall progress, and it sounds good—” He cleared his throat and thought of all the sounds of gunfire and violence he’d heard through the radio in the room below. “That is, it sounds like progress is being made, that it won’t be much longer.”

  A long pause. Lukas forced himself to breathe deeply, to smile at Bernard.

  “Would you have done anything differently, Lukas? From the beginning?”

  Lukas felt his body sway, his knees go a little numb. He was back on that conference table, black steel pressed against his cheek, a line from his eye extending through a small cross, through a tiny hole, pointing like a laser at a small woman with gray hair and a bomb in her hand. Bullets were flying down that line. His bullets.

  “Nossir,” he finally said. “It was all by the Order, sir. Everything’s under control.”

  He waited. Somewhere, he felt, his measure was being taken.

  “You are next in line for the control and operation of silo eighteen,” the voice intoned.

  “Thank you sir.”

  Lukas reached for the headphones, was preparing to take them off and hand them to Bernard in case he needed to say something, to hear that it was official.

  “Do you know the worst part of my job?” the hollow voice asked.

  Lukas dropped his hands.

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Standing here, looking at a silo on this map, and drawing a red cross through it. Can you imagine what that feels like?”

  Lukas shook his head. “I can’t, sir.”

  “It feels like a parent losing thousands of children, all at once.”

  A pause.

  “You will have to be cruel to your children to not lose them.”

  Lukas thought of his father.

  “Yessir.”

  “Welcome to Operation Fifty of the World Order, Lukas Kyle. Now, if you have a question or two, I have the time to answer, but briefly.”

  Lukas wanted to say that he had no questions; he wanted to get off the line; he wanted to call and speak with Juliette, to feel a puff of sanity breathed into this crazy and suffocating room. But he remembered what Bernard had taught him about admitting ignorance, how this was the key to knowledge.

  “Just one, sir. And I’ve been told it isn’t important, and I understand why that’s true, but I believe it will make my job here easier if I know.”

  He paused for a response, but the voice seemed to be waiting for him to get to the question.

  Lukas cleared his throat. “Is there—?” He pinched the mic and moved it closer to his lips, glanced at Bernard. “How did this all begin?”

  He wasn’t sure—it could have been a fan on the server whirring to life—but he thought he heard the man with the deep voice sigh.

  “How badly do you wish to know?”

  Lukas feared answering this question honestly. “It isn’t crucial,” he said, “but I would appreciate a sense of what we’re accomplishing, what we survived. It feels like it gives me—gives us a purpose, you know?”

  “The reason is the purpose,” the man said cryptically. “Before I tell you, I’d like to hear what you think.”

  Lukas swallowed. “What I think?”

  “Everyone has ideas. Are you suggesting you don’t?”

  A hint of humor could be heard in that hollow voice.

  “I think it was something we saw coming,” Lukas said. He watched Bernard, who frowned and looked away.

  “That’s one possibility.”

  Bernard removed his glasses and began wiping them on the sleeve of his undershirt, his eyes at his feet.

  “Consider this—” The deep voice paused. “What if I told you that there were only fifty silos in all the world, and that here we are in this infinitely small corner of it.”

  Lukas thought about this. It felt like another test.

  “I would say that we were the only ones—” He almost said that they were the only ones with the resources, but he’d seen enough in the Legacy to know this wasn’t true. Many parts of the world had buildings rising above their hills. Many more could have been prepared. “I’d say we were the only ones who knew,” Lukas suggested.

  “Very good. And why might that be?”

  He hated this. He didn’t want to puzzle it out, he just wanted to be told.

  And then, like a cable splicing together, like electricity zipping through connections for the very first time, the truth hit him.

  “It’s because—” He tried to make sense of this answer in his head, tried to imagine that such an idea could possibly verge on truth.

  “It’s not because we knew,” Lukas said, sucking in a gasp of air. “It’s because we did it.”

  “Yes,” the voice said. “And now you know.”

  He said something else, just barely audible, like it was being said to someone else. “Our time is up, Lukas Kyle. Congratulations on your assignment.”

  The headphones were sticky against his head, his face clammy with sweat.

  “Thank you,” he managed.

  “Oh, and Lukas?”

  “Yessir?”

  “Going forward, I suggest you concentrate on what’s beneath your feet. No more of this business with the stars, okay son? We know where most of them are.”

  16

  • Silo 18 •

  “Hello? Solo? Please say something.”

  There was no mistaking that voice, even through the small speakers in the dismantled headset. It echoed bodiless in the control room, the same control room that had housed that very voice for so many years. The location was what nailed it for Shirly; she stared at the tiny speakers spliced into the magical radio, knowing it could be no one else.

  Neither she nor Walker dared breathe. They waited what felt like forever before she finally broke the silence.

  “That was Juliette,” she whispered. “How can we—? Is her voice trapped down here? In the air? How long ago would that have been?”

  Shirly didn’t understand how any of the science worked; it was all beyond her pay grade. Walker continued to stare at the headset, unmoving, not saying a word, tears shining in his beard.

  “Are these . . . these ripples we’re grabbing with the antenna, are they just bouncing around down here?”

  She wondered if the same was true of all the voices they’d heard. Maybe they were simply picking up conversations from the past. Was that possible? Like some kind of electrical echo? Somehow, this seemed far less shocking than the alternative.

  Walker turned to her, a strange expression on his face. His mouth hung partway open, but there was a curl at the edges of his lips, a curl that began to rise.

  “It doesn’t work like that,” he said. The curl transformed into a smile. “This is now. This is happening.” He grabbed Shirly’s arm. “You heard it too, didn’t you? I’m not crazy. That really was her, wasn’t it? She’s alive. She made it.”

  “No—” Shirly shook her head. “Walk, what’re you saying? That Juliette’s alive? Made it where?”

  “You heard.” He pointed at the radio. “Before. The conversations. The cleaning. There’s more of them out there. More of us. She’s with them, Shirly. This is happeningrightnow.”

  “Alive.”

  Shirly stared at the radio, processing this. Her friend was still somewhere. Still breathing. It had been so solid in her head, this vision of Juliette’s body just over the hills, lying in silent repose, the wind flecking a
way at her. And now she was picturing her moving, breathing, talking into a radio somewhere.

  “Can we talk to her?” she asked.

  She knew it was a dumb question. But Walker seemed to startle, his old limbs jumping.

  “Oh, God. God, yes.” He set the mish-mash of components down on the floor, his hands trembling, but with what Shirly now read as excitement. The fear in both of them was gone, drained from the room, the rest of the world beyond that small space fading to meaninglessness.

  Walker dug into the parts bin. He dumped some tools out and pawed into the bottom of the container.

  “No,” he said. He turned and scanned the parts on the ground. “No no no.”

  “What is it?” Shirly slid away from the string of components so he could better see. “What’re we missing? There’s a microphone right there.” She pointed to the partially disassembled headphones.

  “The transmitter. It’s a little board. I think it’s on my workbench.”

  “I swiped everything into the bin.” Her voice was high and tense. She moved toward the plastic bucket.

  “My other workbench. It wasn’t needed. All Jenks wanted was to listen in.” He waved at the radio. “I did what he wanted. How could I have known I’d need to transmit—?”

  “You couldn’t,” Shirly said. She rested her hand on his arm. She could tell he was heading toward a bad place. She had seen him go there often enough, knew he had shortcuts he could take to get there in no time. “Is there anything in here we can use? Think, Walk. Concentrate.”

  He shook his head, wagged his finger at the headphones. “This mic is dumb. It just passes the sound through. Little membranes vibrating—”

  He turned and looked at her. “Wait—there is something.”

  “Down here? Where?”

  “The mining storehouse would have them. A transmitter.” He pretended to hold a box and twist a switch. “For the blasting caps. I repaired one just a month ago. It would work.”

  Shirly rose to her feet. “I’ll go get it,” she said. “You stay here.”

  “But the stairwell—”

  “I’ll be safe. I’m going down, not up.”

  He bobbed his head.

  “Don’t change anything with that.” She pointed to the radio. “No looking for more voices. Just hers. Leave it there.”

  “Of course.”

  Shirly bent down and squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

  Outside, she found dozens of faces turning her way, frightened and questioning looks in their wide eyes, their slack mouths. She felt like shouting over the hum of the generator that Juliette was alive, that they weren’t alone, that other people lived and breathed in the forbidden outside. She wanted to, but she didn’t have the time. She hurried to the rail and found Courtnee.

  “Hey—”

  “Everything okay in there?” Courtnee asked.

  “Yeah, fine. Do me a favor, will you? Keep an eye on Walker for me.”

  Courtnee nodded. “Where are you—?”

  But Shirly was already gone, running to the main door. She squeezed through a group huddled in the entranceway. Jenkins was outside with Harper. They stopped talking as she hurried past.

  “Hey!” Jenkins seized her arm. “Where the hell’re you going?”

  “Mine storeroom.” She twisted her arm out of his grasp. “I won’t be long—”

  “You won’t be going. We’re about to blow that stairwell. These idiots are falling right into our hands.”

  “You’re what?”

  “The stairwell,” Harper repeated. “It’s rigged to blow. Once they get down there and start working their way through—” He put his hands together in a ball, then expanded the sphere in a mock explosion.

  “You don’t understand—” She faced Jenkins. “It’s for the radio.”

  He frowned. “Walk had his chance.”

  “We’re picking up a lot of chatter,” she told him. “He needs this one piece. I’ll be right back, swear.”

  Jenkins looked to Harper. “How long before we do this?”

  “Five minutes, sir.” His chin moved back and forth, almost imperceptibly.

  “You’ve got four,” he said to Shirly. “But make sure—”

  She didn’t hear the rest. Her boots were already pounding the steel, carrying her toward the stairwell. She flew past the oil rig with its sad and lowered head, past the row of confused and twitching men, their guns all pointing the way.

  She hit the top of the steps and slid around the corner. Someone half a flight up yelled in alarm. Shirly caught a glimpse of two miners with sticks of TNT before she skipped down the flight of stairs.

  At the next level, she turned and headed for the mineshaft. The hallways were silent, just her panting and the clop, clop, clop of her boots.

  Juliette. Alive.

  A person sent to cleaning, alive.

  She turned down the next hallway and ran past the apartments for the deep workers, the miners and the oil men, men who now bore guns instead of holes in the earth, who wielded weapons rather than tools.

  And this new knowledge, this impossible bit of news, this secret, it made the fighting seem surreal. Petty. How could anyone fight if there were places to go beyond these walls? If her friend was still out there? Shouldn’t they be going as well?

  She made it to the storeroom. Probably been two minutes. Her heart was racing. Surely Jenkins wouldn’t do anything to that stairway until she got back. She moved down the shelves, peering in the bins and drawers. She knew what the thing looked like. There should be several of them floating about. Where were they?

  She checked the lockers, threw the dingy coveralls hanging inside them to the ground, tossed work helmets out of the way. She didn’t see anything. How much time did she have?

  She tried the small foreman’s office next, throwing the door open and storming to the desk. Nothing in the drawers. Nothing on the shelves mounted to the wall. One of the big drawers on the bottom was stuck. Locked.

  Shirly stepped back and kicked the front of the metal drawer with her boot. She slammed the steel toe into it once, twice. The lip curled down, away from the drawer above. She reached in, yanked the flimsy lock off its lip, and the warped drawer opened with a groan.

  Explosives. Sticks of dynamite. There were a few small relays that she knew went into the sticks to ignite them. Beneath these, she found three of the transmitters Walker was looking for.

  Shirly grabbed two of them, a few relays, and put them all in her pocket. She took two sticks of the dynamite—just because they were there and went with everything else—and ran out of the office, through the storeroom, back toward the stairs.

  She had used up too much time. Her chest felt cool and empty, raspy, as she labored to breathe. She ran as fast as she could, concentrating on throwing her boots forward, lunging for more floor, gobbling it up.

  Turning at the end of the hall, she again thought about how ridiculous this fighting was. It was hard to remember why it had begun. Knox was gone, so was McLain. Would their people be fighting if these great leaders were still around? Would they have done something different long ago? Something more sane?

  She cursed the folly of it all as she reached the stairs. Surely it had been five minutes. She waited for a blast to ring out above her, to deafen her with the concussive ferocity trapped in that stairwell. Leaping up two treads at a time, she made the turn at the top and saw that the miners were gone. Anxious eyes peered at her over homemade barrels.

  “Go!” someone yelled, waving their arms to the side, hurrying her along.

  Shirly focused on Jenkins, who crouched down with his own rifle, Harper by his side. She nearly tripped over the wires leading away from the stairwell as she ran toward the two men.

  “Now!” Jenkins yelled.

  Someone threw a switch.

  The ground lurched and buckled beneath Shirly’s feet, sending her sprawling. She landed hard on the steel floor, her chin grazing the diamond plating, the dynam
ite nearly flying from her hands.

  Her ears were still ringing as she got to her knees. Men were moving behind the railing, guns popping into the bank of smoke leaking from a new maw of twisted and jagged steel. The screams of the distant wounded could be heard on the other side.