Silo Saga: The Choosing (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Silo 13) Read online

  Text copyright ©2014 by the Author.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  About the Author

  The Choosing: Silo 13

  By

  David Macinnis Gill

  1

  The day of the cleaning, Théo awoke in his hammock on level 130. The apartment he shared with his caster and his shadow-brother was still dark. The grow lights that fed energy to the garden plants would flicker on in a half hour. By then, he would be halfway through the gathering.

  Théo scooped a pair of climbing shoes from the floor and gathered gloves from the hook beside the hammock. When he left the room, holding the door so that it would close silently, the other two were both snoring. He pulled a wool throw over his blue overalls to keep warm. The apartment was so muggy from the grow lights that he had sweated in the hammock, but the air in the upper levels would be chilly.

  In the hallway he pushed his feet into the shoes and pulled the gloves over his hands. Yesterday, he had forgotten the gloves and picked up a thorn. Trinidad, his caster, had to remove it with a hot needle and a pair of pliers. The wound in his palm was still puffy and sore from the thorn's poison, even after Trinidad had treated it with a vinegar poultice.

  So today, he was taking no chances, not with the cleaning so close.

  Théo left the outer circle of the level and took the spiral staircase halfway up to 129. His toes gripped each tread as he limbered up for the climb, and he counted steps until he reached the abyss. That's where the rail disappeared, and Théo ran out of steps to take.

  It was the end of the line.

  Here, the metal rails and treads had been cut away with a diamond saw. The cuts were smooth to begin with, and a hundred years of climbers had rubbed the metal to a glossy finish. Beyond the severed handrail and stairway, there was nothing.

  Nothing but the abyss.

  He stared up into the inky black above. Fifteen levels up, greenish emergency lights flashed. The space between the lights and the landing where he stood was filled with darkness. The walls were covered with thick kudzu, vines as thick as his wrist and strong enough to support the weight of several men. The vines grew wild between 129 and 119. For ten levels, they covered every floor, wall, and ceiling, along with the fixtures and furniture inside.

  Théo had seen with his own eyes the vines grow ten feet in one day. Climbers battled constantly to keep the plant from creeping into 130's gardens, where the nitrogen-hungry creepers would suck the life out of the down deep's food supply.

  Closing his eyes and counting to three, Théo bent his knees and launched himself into the abyss. His gloved hands closed on a batch of narrow creepers, and he wedged his feet in the crux of a thicker vine below.

  He began to climb.

  For each of the last twenty-nine days, Théo had made this same trek. His goal was level 120, where the great farms had once been, before the last insurrection. Now the floor was deserted, and it was the only place in the silo where the sacred black roses grew.

  His sore shoulders ached each time he reached above his head. His fingers hurt, the joints swollen. His knees and feet were just as sore, and the nerves in his back twanged as if they were bare wires connected to a generator. Most climbers used ladders woven from the vines. They were affixed here and there, hanging from the upper levels.

  Théo didn't like using ladders. He preferred the vines.

  "Keep going," he told himself.

  The ceremony was tonight at six bells, and at the end of it, he would only wish to have the chance to climb again.

  At level 121, he reached the old deputy station. The paint chipped away and faded, but he could still see the stenciled writing that announced that a law officer was inside. Like the stairs, the deputy had been gone for a century. The floor was overrun with kudzu just like the ones below, and the vines did not care whose space it had once been.

  A hundred years, Théo thought.

  A hundred years since a sheriff had come down deep. Or a mayor. They kept their distance, and thus, kept the truce.

  All they asked for in return was blood.

  That much time had passed since the upper floors had been overrun by the mechanics. Angry over poor rations and treatment when the generators went bad, the men and priests in blue overalls had taken arms and led an insurrection that almost took over Silo 13. But their first offensive failed before the onslaught of IT's superior weapons, and they were beaten back down deep in a bloody battle that cost the uppers dearly.

  To keep the mechanics from launching another attack, the mayor ordered the spiral staircase, the lifeline to the upper floors, destroyed. A hundred sticks of TNT, a few cuts of a diamond saw, and the passage to the top ceased to exist.

  It took the kudzu less than a year to spread through the blackness. At first, neither the mechanics and nor supply, which inhabited the lowest levels of the upper region, noticed the spread of the vines. By the time they were found, it was too late to stop them. The kudzu had become a permanent part of Silo 13.

  Always ones to make the most of resources, mechanics started to use the vines to reach the upper levels. These brave and foolish souls became known as climbers. Like the porters that ran the staircases, the climbers used the vines to scavenge from above.

  For ten decades now, shadows like Théo worked for their casters, gathering nectar from the black roses.

  Almost all of them dead now, all of them sent to clean.

  Get the cleaning out of your head, Théo thought.

  Thinking was a bad thing to do on a climb. Yes, the kudzu was impenetrable, but the vines were a mix of old, new, and rotten. It was normal to set your foot in the crux of the creepers, only to have it explode as you put your weight on it. Two days ago, that very thing had happened to him, and he found himself dangling ninety feet above the next landing, only a fistful of tangled green creepers keeping him from falling to his death.

  Finally, after at least a half hour, his body soaked in sweat from the exertion, he hauled himself up to level 120, a place the climbers called the apiary.

  At this floor, the kudzu ended. There were no creepers on the walls. No green leaves. No hairy seed pods. No pretty purple and white flowers.

  This is where the black roses grew.

  It was also where the bees lived. By the millions. They built their hives in every container, ever nook, every cranny, they could find. That is why it was called the apiary. It was the level that separated down deep from the uppers.

  Below it was the vines.

  Above it were levels 117-119, the dead zone, levels where nothing grew and no bees could survive. After the insurrection and the removal of the stairwell, the uppers had done something to those floors to sterilize them. None of the mechanics knew what, but knowing didn't matter when everything was dead.

  With as much quiet as he could muster, Théo removed his shoes and gloves. He placed them carefully on the floor and then walking on the balls of his feet, he crept to the near his apartment. Inside the open door, screened to keep the bees outside, he found the smoke pot and the veil. These were only for protection, in case he made a mistake and disturbed the aggr
essive bees that kept guard over the hive.

  He slipped the veil over his face and lit the smoke pot. He left the apartment, making sure to put the screen back in place, and moved to the area where the black roses grew.

  No one knew how the bees and the roses came to be on this level. Trinidad had told Théo several theories. Perhaps someone has been raising bees illegally, and when that level was abandoned, a new queen left the hive seeking a new home. As for the roses, Trinidad said they were probably grown by a botanist who worked in one of the gardens.

  None of these theories have made any sense to Théo. He was inclined to accept how things were and not one to ask how things came to be. Sometimes, having that knowledge could drive a young man mad.

  Blowing short puffs of the smoke just in case, he found the apartment, closed-door behind them and began harvesting the nectar from the roses. Tenderly, he plucked each black flower and wrapped it in recycled paper, careful not to spill the drops of nectar.

  Each day, Théo had to gather the tiny droplets--the black roses only gave the nectar once each year and only during this month.

  "Careful," he whispered to himself as his hands began to shake.

  A droplet of oily nectar vibrated on the paper. Trinidad had treated the paper so that it was impervious to liquids. That did not mean that an unsteady hand could not ruin the entire process. If Théo ever wanted to become keeper of the bees, he would have to master simple tasks such as these.

  Who was he fooling? He would never become keeper of bees.

  His caster, Trinidad, was very tired and very old. He had lived sixty-two years and had been keeper of bees for one forty-one bee hunts. Trinidad had told Petros, the lead mechanic, that this would be his last bee hunt. One of his shadows would take his place after it was finished.

  The bees used the nectar to make the honey the climbers were famous for: Among the bee climbers, only the keeper knew how to make magic. Once a year, the bee queen would produce a special royal jelly, and once a year, one of the climbers would break into the hives and devour the jelly, along with the living queen. He would be granted great wisdom and a long life and become the keeper of bees.

  Théo should have been glad for old Trinidad. He had been keeper for twice the customary time, waiting for a worthy shadow. It was a heavy burden to bear. But Théo was not glad, for he was Trinidad's lesser shadow, and he could not became the new keeper of bees.

  That honor belonged to Lejeune, his shadow brother. He would be the one who consumed the royal jelly and the queen. He would become master of the hive, and Théo would await his fate on level 130. The mayor and the sheriff would unroll the rope ladder from 116 and after a brief speech about paying penance and sacrifice, Théo would climb the ladder into the darkness to do the cleaning.

  When Théo finished plucking the last of the frost-covered blooms, his sack was full. The intoxicating smell of the nectar coated his hands. It was all Théo could do to resist licking his fingers, but he had to. The nectar of the flowers was poison. Only one drop of it on the tongue was enough to kill a grown man.

  Kill him, Théo heard his mother's voice whisper. Kill him and become keeper.

  Then Théo had a vision of Lejeune asleep in his hammock, mouth open as he snored. A black rose hung above his mouth. With a tiny squeeze, a droplet of poison fell between his lips. The snoring ceased, and Lejeune's eyes would never open again.

  The vision stopped Théo's breath, which hung frozen in the air.

  "No, I will not kill my brother."

  But the idea of his Lejeune's death also warmed him like a bowl of stew. Where he had felt only numbing desperation, the thought gave him a dark glimmer of hope.

  2

  When Théo returned from gathering, the apartment was quiet. With silent steps, Théo crept to the hammocks, one of the blossoms pinched in his fingers. But his brother was not there.

  The hammocks were empty.

  As usual, Lejeune had gone out without doing chores.

  Through the window, Théo saw Trinidad standing on the landing of the staircase. In past seasons there would have been a line of villagers seeking counsel. The keeper of bees could divine the future, interpret dreams, and find missing objects. But now that his store of blood honey was empty, Trinidad was of little use to the mechanics down deep. They no longer had use of his wisdom. Théo didn't think it disappointed him.

  Sighing, Théo went into the gardens, where they kept a virgin queen in a bee cage. Trinidad watched as Théo emptied his sack into a small basket and then lowered it to the spot where the queen bee was surrounded by workers. Théo filled the cage with flowers, and they waited for the bees to feast.

  "Where has Lejeune gone?" he asked.

  "To receive the priests' blessing," Trinidad said. "The nectar is very strong today. I can smell it in the air."

  Théo offered his hands. "It is all over my skin."

  "Go wash and be careful. You know what the poison can do."

  Théo bowed and did as he was told.

  After cleaning up, Théo sat cross-legged on a mat on the floor. A messy jumble of vine fibers was in the basket at his left. Théo wove the fibers into the form of a basket, creating a strand of yarn no thicker than a needle. The vine smelled like burnt grass, and its stiffening fibers embedded themselves in his callused fingers.

  After he had eaten the breakfast of rice and stew the caster had prepared, Théo would finish the basket. Tomorrow, he and Lejeune would use the basket as they climbed up to level 120. There, Lejeune would take the black jelly from the queen's hive, devour the queen, and become the new keeper of bees.

  "Trinidad," Théo asked. "Tell me again why we must do the cleaning."

  "I have told you this story fifty times."

  "The reason still makes no sense to me."

  "Do you think that if I tell it to you fifty-one times, that it would suddenly make sense?"

  "I've had the same hope for the last forty-nine times."

  Trinidad laughed. "Then I will tell you again. No one but you wants to listen to an old man, anyway. After the mayor had the staircase destroyed," he began, "the mechanics retaliated by taking generator offline."

  The leader of the mechanics believed she could force the mayor's hand by starving the silo of electricity. In turn, the mayor decided to starve the mechanics of water and food. Two weeks later, a truce was reached. As long as the mechanics kept the generator powered up, the mayor would supply food and water. To pay penance for their crimes, the mechanics would each year offer one of their own to the clean.

  For the first decade, they sent a volunteer for the cleaning. The volunteers were almost always the elderly. If it was a quick death, then they were happy for it. Better than wasting away into nothing, growing as useless as a broken down sump pump. Over time, the uppers figured out what was going on, and they demanded that a young person be sent instead.

  "What sacrifice," the mayor asked them, "is it to give us a walking fossil? We demand a true sacrifice, a vibrant life to replace all the lives that you took with your war."

  So the mechanics devised a race.

  With the discovery of the vines and the hives, a group of mechanics with strong bodies and agile limbs became known as climbers. Each year, they raced to the beehives to harvest them honey, the most precious of which was the royal jelly. They learned that whoever ate the jelly and devoured the queen could control the hive, the keeper of bees. All too quickly, the race became a bloodthirsty affair, with climbers maiming, even killing, one another to reach the queen first. Even when climbers reached the bees first, they would often be rejected by the hive and attacked.

  So it was decided that only the keeper and his shadow would harvest the jelly. On the day that the black royal jelly flowed, the two would climb to the hive. One would become or remain keeper. The other would be sent to clean. Some keepers lasted only one year before the bees rejected them. Other, like Trinidad, lasted many years.

  "But no matter what," Trinidad said, "The keeper's
life always ends in the cleaning. Does the story makes sense to you now?"

  "If you know that you're fated to clean, why have you made the climb every year?"

  "Because I am the keeper, and the keeper makes the climb with his shadow. Every year, I prayed that the bees will choose my shadow and I would be the one to climb the ladder at the end."

  "Why would you wish that?"

  "Because I am a climber who can no longer climb." Trinidad pulled up the leg of his blue overalls. Below his knee was the metal peg the doctor had given him after his leg was amputated. Diabetes, the doctor had said. "You, Théo, will take my place. I am sorry."

  Théo did not need to ask more questions. He understood, listening to the sadness and Trinidad's voice. Two shadows would climb this year. One to become keeper. The other to take Trinidad's place.

  "I am honored to climb for you," Théo said.

  "The honor," Trinidad said, "is mine."

  Théo 's belly filled with warmth. His eyes clouded, and he could barely see his fingers mindlessly spinning the filaments.

  Then his mother's voice whispered, Take the vines and loop them around Lejeune's neck.

  Théo blinked and saw his shadow brother dangling from the platform at 116, his eyes popped with shock and death. The image was so vivid, Théo bit the first knuckle of his left hand in penance for his sin.

  "What was the matter?" Trinidad asked, as he added spices to the pot cooking over the fire.

  The porridge bubbled, and Trinidad leaned over the pot to taste it, using the scarred tips of his fingers as a dipper. Scars covered Trinidad's hands and wrists, his neck and his crooked back, where the skin looked like cracked leather stretched over a rack of bones. The knobs of his spine was a silo ridge, and his shoulder blades protruded like thin slabs of slate.

  When Théo did not answer, Trinidad said, "Was it the stings?"

  Théo stared at the teeth marks on his knuckle. The mark was surrounded by scars like Trinidad's but fewer, far fewer. It still hurt him when the bees stung, especially when they stung his face. His eyes were still swollen from three nights ago, when he was allowed to join Trinidad and Lejeune for the blessing festival.