ust (Silo, #3)(12)
Hank glanced up from his desk as she entered. The deputy’s eyes widened as he recognized her – they had not spoken nor seen each other since she got back. He rose from his chair and took two steps toward her, then stopped, and Juliette saw the same mix of nerves and excitement that she felt and realized she shouldn’t have been afraid of coming, that she shouldn’t have avoided him until now. Hank reached out his hand timidly, as if worried she might refuse to shake it. He seemed ready to pull it back if it offended. Whatever heartache she had brought him, he still seemed pained at having followed orders and sent her to clean.
Juliette took the deputy’s hand and pulled him into an embrace.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice giving out on him.
“Stop that,” Juliette said. She let go of the lawman and took a step back, studied his shoulder. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. How’s your arm?”
He shrugged his shoulder in a circle. “Still attached,” he said. “And if you ever dare apologize to me, I’ll have you arrested.”
“Truce, then,” she offered.
Hank smiled. “Truce,” he said. “But I do want to say—”
“You were doing your job. And I was doing the best I could. Now leave it.”
He nodded and studied his boots.
“How are things around here? Lukas said there’s been grumbling about my work below.”
“There’s been some acting up. Nothing too serious. I think most people are busy enough patching things up. But yeah, I’ve heard some talk. You know how many requests we get for transfer out of here and up to the Mids or the Top. Well, I’ve been getting ten times the normal. Folks don’t want to be near what you’ve got going on, I’m afraid.”
Juliette chewed her lip.
“Part of the problem is lack of direction,” Hank said. “Don’t want to shoulder you with this, but me and the boys down here don’t have a clear idea which way is up right now. We aren’t getting dispatches from Security like we used to. And your office …”
“Has been quiet,” Juliette offered.
Hank scratched the back of his head. “That’s right. Not that you’ve been exactly quiet yourself. We can sometimes hear the racket you’re making out on the landing.”
“That’s why I’m visiting,” she told him. “I want you to know that your concerns are my concerns. I’m heading up to my office for a week or two. I’ll stop by the other deputy stations as well. Things are going to improve around here in a lot of ways.”
Hank frowned. “You know I trust you and all, but when you tell people around here that things are going to improve, all they hear is that things are going to change. And for those who are breathing and count that as a blessing, they take that to mean one thing and one thing only.”
Juliette thought of all she had planned, in the Up Top as well as the Down Deep. “As long as good men like you trust me, we’ll be fine,” she said. “Now, I’ve got a favor to ask.”
“You need a place to stay the night,” Hank guessed. He waved at the jail cell. “I saved your room for you. I can turn down the cot—”
Juliette laughed. She was happy that they could already joke about what had moments ago been a discomfort. “No,” she said. “Thanks, though. I’m supposed to be up at the mids farms by lights out. I have to plant the first crop in a new patch of soil being turned over.” She waved her hand in the air. “It’s one of those things.”
Hank smiled and nodded.
“What I wanted to ask is that you keep an eye on the stairwell for me. Lukas mentioned there were grumbles up above. I’m going up to soothe them, but I want you to be on the alert if things go sour. We’re short-staffed below, and people are on edge.”
“You expecting trouble?” Hank asked.
Juliette considered the question. “I am,” she said. “If you need to take a shadow or two, I’ll budget it.”
He frowned. “I normally like having chits thrown my way,” he said. “So why does this make me feel uncomfortable?”
“Same reason I’m happy to pay,” Juliette said. “We both know you’re getting the busted end of the deal.”
9
Leaving the deputy’s office, Juliette climbed through levels that had seen much of the fighting, and she noticed once more the silo’s wounds of war. She rose through ever-worsening reminders of the battles that had been waged in her absence, saw the marks left behind from the fighting, the jagged streaks of bright silver through old paint, the black burns and pockmarks in concrete, the rebar poking through like fractured bone through skin.
She had devoted most of her life to holding that silo together, to keeping it running. This was a kindness repaid by the silo as it filled her lungs with air, gave rise to the crops, and claimed the dead. They were responsible for one another. Without people, this silo would become as Solo’s had: rusted and fairly drowned. Without the silo, she would be a skull on a hill, looking blankly to the cloud-filled skies. They needed each other.
Her hand slid up the rail, rough with new welds, her own hand a mess of scars. For much of her life, they had kept each other going, she and the silo. Right up until they’d damn near killed each other. And now the minor hurts in Mechanical she had hoped to repair one day – squealing pumps, spitting pipes, leaks from the exhaust – all paled before the far worse wreckage her leaving had caused. In much the same way that the occasional scars – reminders of youthful missteps – were now lost beneath disfigured flesh, it seemed that one large mistake could bury all the minor ones.