29
• Silo 18 •
Awareness, like sporadic jolts of pain from her burns, came and went.
Juliette remembered a billowing fog, boots stomping all around her, lying on her side in the oven of an airlock. She watched the way the world warped out of shape as her helmet, a viscous thing, continued to sag toward her, melting. A bright silver star hovered in her vision, waving as it settled beyond her dome. Peter Billings peered through her helmet at her, shook her scalded shoulders, cried out to the people stomping around, telling them to help.
They lifted her up and out of that steaming place, sweat dripping from faces, a melted suit cut from her body.
Juliette floated through her old office like a ghost. Flat on her back, the squeal of a fussy wheel below her, past the rows and rows of steel bars, an empty bench in an empty cell.
They carried her in circles.
Down.
She woke to the beeping of her heart, these machines checking in on her, a man dressed like her father.
He was the first to notice her awake. His eyebrows lifted, a smile, a nod to someone over her shoulder.
And Lukas was there, his face—so familiar, so strange—was in her blurry vision. She felt his hand in hers. She knew that hand had been there a while, that he had been there a while. He was crying and laughing, brushing her cheek. Jules wanted to know what was so funny. What was so sad. He just shook his head as she drifted back to sleep.
• • • •
It wasn’t just that the burns were bad—it’s that they were everywhere.
The days of recovery were spent sliding in and out of painkiller fogs.
Every time she saw Lukas, she apologized. Everyone was making a fuss. Peter came. There were piles of notes from down deep, but nobody was allowed up. Nobody else to see her but the man dressed like her father and women who reminded her of her mom.
• • • •
Her head cleared quickly once they let it.
Juliette came out of what felt like a deep dream, weeks of haze, nightmares of drowning and burning, of being outside, of dozens of silos just like hers. The drugs had kept the pain at bay—but her consciousness, too. She didn’t mind the stings and aches if it meant winning back her mind. It was an easy trade.
“Hey.”
She flopped her head to the side—and Lukas was there. Was he ever not? A blanket fell from his chest as he leaned forward, held her hand. He smiled.
“You’re looking better.”
Juliette licked her lips. Her mouth was dry.
“Where am I?”
“The infirmary on thirty-three. Just take it easy. Do you want me to get you anything?”
She shook her head. It felt amazing to be able to move, to respond to words. She tried to squeeze his hand.
“I’m sore,” she said weakly.
Lukas laughed. He looked relieved to hear this. “I bet.”
She blinked and looked at him. “There’s an infirmary on thirty-three?” His words were on a delay.
He nodded gravely. “I’m sorry, but it’s the best in the silo. And we could keep you safe. But forget that. Rest. I’ll go grab the nurse.”
He stood, a thick book spilling from his lap and tumbling into the chair, burying itself in the blanket and pillows.
“Do you think you can eat?”
She nodded, turned her head back to face the ceiling and the bright lights, everything coming back to her, memories popping up like the tingle of pain on her skin.
• • • •
She read folded notes for days and cried. Lukas sat by her side, collecting the ones that spilled to the floor like paper planes tossed from landings. He apologized over and over, blubbering like he was the one who’d done it. Juliette read all of them a dozen times, trying to keep straight who was gone and who was still signing their names. She couldn’t believe it about Knox. Some things seemed immutable, like the great stairway. She wept for him and for Marck, wanted desperately to see Shirly, was told that she couldn’t.
Ghosts visited her when the lights were out. Juliette would wake up, eyes crusted over, pillow wet, Lukas rubbing her forehead and telling her it would be okay.
• • • •
Peter came often. Juliette thanked him over and over. It was all Peter, all Peter. He had made the choice. Lukas told her of the stairway, his march to cleaning, hearing her voice on Peter’s radio, the implications of her being alive.
Peter had taken the risk, had listened. That had led to him and Lukas talking. Lukas had said forbidden things, was in no danger of being sent anyplace worse, said something that confused her about being a bad virus, a catching cold. The radio barked with reports from Mechanical of people surrendering. Bernard sentenced them to death anyway.
And Peter had a decision to make. Was he the final law, or did he owe something to those who put him in place? Did he do what was right, or what was expected of him? It was so easy to do the latter, but Peter Billings was a good man.
Lukas told him so on that stairwell. He told him that this was where they’d been put by fate, but what they did going forward defined them. That was who they were.
He told Peter that Bernard had killed a man. That he had proof. Lukas had done nothing to deserve this.
Peter pointed out that every ounce of IT security was a hundred levels away. There was only one gun up-top. Only one law.
His.