ust (Silo, #3)(77)

The express arrived with a cheerful ding. An exhausted-looking man in purple coveralls guided a wheeled bucket out, steered it with the handle of a mop. Instead of calling in his find, Darcy had called down backup. The night custodian. The two men shook hands. Darcy thanked him for staying on shift late, said he owed him a big one. He took the man’s place inside the express.

He only had to go down two levels. It felt crazy, taking the express two levels. What the silo needed was stairs. There were so many times he just needed to go up or down a single level and found himself waiting five minutes for a blasted lift. It made no sense. He sighed and pressed the button for the medical wing. Before the doors shut, he heard a wet slap from the mop next door.

Dr. Whitmore’s office was crowded. Not with workers – it was just Whitmore and his two med techs busying about – but with bodies. Two extra bodies on slabs. One was the woman discovered dead the day before; Darcy remembered her name being Anna. The other was Eren, the former silo head. Whitmore was at his computer, typing up notes while the lab techs worked on the deceased.

“Sir?”

Whitmore turned. His eyes went from Darcy’s face to his hands. “Whatcha got?”

“One more sample. On a bullet. Can you run it for me?”

Whitmore waved at one of the men in the operating room, who exited with his hands held by his shoulders.

“Can you run this for the officer?”

The lab tech didn’t seem thrilled. He tugged his bloodstained gloves off with loud thwacks and threw them in the sink to be washed and sterilized. “Let’s see it,” he said.

The machine didn’t take long. It beeped and whirred and made purposeful sounds, and then spit out a piece of paper in jittery fits. The tech reached for the results before Darcy could. “Yup. Got a match. It belongs to … Huh. That’s weird.”

Darcy took the report. There was the bar graph, that unique UPC code of a man’s DNA. Amounts and percentages of various blood levels were written in inscrutable code: IFG, PLT, Hgb. But where the system should have listed the details of the matching personnel record, it simply said on one of the many lines: Emer. The rest of the bio fields were blank.

“Emer,” the lab tech said. He crossed to the sink and began washing the gloves and his hands. “That’s a weird name. Who would pick a name like that?”

“Where are those other results?” Darcy asked. “From earlier.”

The tech nodded to the recycle bin at Dr. Whitmore’s feet, who continued to clack away at his keyboard. Darcy sifted through the bin, found one of the results sheets from earlier. He held the two side by side.

“It’s not a name,” Darcy said. “That would be on the top line. This is where the location should be.” On the other report, the name Eren stood above a line listing the freeze hall and the coordinates of the dead man’s storage pod. Darcy remembered what one of the smaller freeze halls was called.

“Emergency Personnel,” he said with satisfaction. He had solved a small mystery. He smiled at the room, but the other men had already returned to their work.

????

Emergency Personnel was the smallest of the freeze halls. Darcy stood outside the metal door, his breath visible in the air and clouding the steel. He entered his code, and the keypad blinked red and buzzed its disapproval. He tried the master security code next, and the doors clunked open and slid into the walls.

His heart raced with a mix of fear and excitement. It wasn’t simply being on this trail of clues, it was where that trail was taking him. Emergency Personnel had been set aside for the most extreme of cases, for those times when Security was deemed insufficient. Through a dense haze, he remembered a time when cops stepped aside while heavily armored men emerged from vans and took down a building with military precision. Had that been him? In a former, former life? He couldn’t remember. And anyway, these men in the emergency hall were different. Many of them had been up and about recently. Darcy remembered from when he got on shift. They were pilots. He recalled seeing ripples in his mug of coffee one day and finding out that bombs had been dropped from drones. Moving from one pod to the next, he searched for an empty one. Someone had not gone back to sleep when they should have, he suspected. Or someone had been stirred to do bad things.

It was this last possibility that filled him with fear. Who had access to such personnel? Who had the ability to awaken them without anyone knowing? He suspected that no matter whom he reported his findings to, as those findings went up and up the chain of command, they would possibly reach the person or people responsible. It also occurred to him that the man who had been killed was the on-shift head of the entire silo, the head of all the silos. This was big. This was huge. A feud between silo heads? This could get him off coffee-brewing and blood-mopping duty forever.

He was two thirds of the way through the grid of cryopods, making a circuit back and forth, when he started to suspect that he might’ve been wrong. It was all so tenuous. He was playing at someone else’s job. There wouldn’t be anyone missing, no grand conspiracy, nobody up killing people—

And then he peered inside a pod with no face there, with no frost on the glass. A palm on the skin of the pod confirmed that it was off. It was the same temperature as the room: cool but not freezing. He checked the display, fearing that it would be off and blank as well, but it showed power. Just no name. Only a number.