Silo 49: Deep Dark

Chapter One

The shadow assigned to assist her came right on time. Cane in one hand and a sturdy arm bracing the other, Marina Patrick made her slow way toward the area set aside for today’s events. After more than thirty years as the Archival Historian of the silo, she has aged into the oldest of them, yet this is her first cleaning. It is also certainly her last. Even being ported up to Level 1 had been almost more than she could bear. Her joints ached and ground like badly cut metal with each step she took.

As per protocol, Marina was to arrive early to record the event and all that surrounded it. Only the sounds of her shuffling footsteps and puffing breaths accompanied them along the passageway of partitioned rooms. The sounds of engineers yelling, construction workers banging and metal workers doing both were finally gone, their work leaving the whole level a different place.

Three decades of learning and the work that came from what they had learned were complete at last. Everything was ready and it would be up to the cleaner and those who would support him to prove they had done well. And up to Marina to record the events, of course.

The bright light and open space of Level 1 made her blink after the dimness of the hallway. Her eyes were drawn immediately to the place where all the construction had been focused. New walls enclosed a much larger part of Level 1 than previously. The new door was a solid one, with large overlapping seals on the working side visible even from this distance. Beyond that, a further rim of concrete had been added that rose about eight inches above the floor. So many people had tripped on it during construction that it was now painted a vivid yellow.

No other evidence of the vast changes made could be seen from here. People who came to the cafeteria to enjoy the view wouldn’t be bothered and that was just as it should be. Getting over the little barrier was harder than Marina would have thought. She was forced to grab a handful of her coveralls and lift her less able left leg over the lip. No amount of internal demand seemed to force the leg to lift more than a modest inch or two on its own.

Inside the newly built walls, the stations for final stage decontamination were set up and ready, their carefully placed supplies covered by sheets to protect them. A neat stack of clothes, hospital wear of un-dyed cotton and a pair of slippers, waited in an optimistic pile for the end of today’s events.

The door to the one time offices and cells of the sheriff’s station had been sealed on the working side also. More of the big, wide strips of gray sealing plastic, combined with pressure, kept the air where it needs to be. When the shadow pulled the door open, it made a sucking sound that was vaguely obscene to Marina’s ears.

A breeze rushed past her and into the room where the air pressure is lower, so that her hair is the first part of her to enter. This area is no longer a simple workplace. It is a command center for the event to come and hopefully, for every one after if all goes well. Precious monitors are crammed side by side along the walls, their views dark for the moment. And at the other end of the room, the cell door has been removed to allow for easy passage toward the inner decontamination staging area.

The airlock, though she can only see the first door, is both an expanded and divided affair. Additional airlock doors, one of them from the passageway in the Fabber section where she once worked, have been fitted into the airlock to divide it. The airlock itself has been expanded into the room providing a three stage system of airlocks that all tests to date confirm will work. Bags and bags of fine orange dust have been used in the tests and not a single grain of it has ever escaped into the room where she now stands. They are ready.

Chapter Two

Marina accepts help into her chair, a well-padded one that has been marked for her use alone. She smiles at the shadow and says, “Thank you, Steven. You can run along if you like. I’m just going to start writing my initial impressions of the day.”

Steven eyes her a moment, his expressions saying he’s unsure about leaving the frail old woman she has become. After that moment passes, he gives her a respectful nod and bids her goodbye. When the door slams closed with another peculiar sucking noise, Marina removes her book from her pocket and opens to the first blank page. Her little pot of ink is full and her pen has a new nib that is shiny and sharp.

She looks around the room, at the tanks of water mounted on sturdy platforms all along the walls to either side of the expanded airlock, the vast hoses that can dump it with amazing speed into the airlocks and at the pumps that will move that same water back out and into more tanks set beneath the platforms. All of it has the rough look of the newly made. There are shiny spots on the metal where it has been recently ground, the welds all standing out in sharp relief and the bolts un-rusted and freshly milled.

She records it all and finds that time has escaped her when she finally looks up again at the clock. She has filled many pages with the details. Marina notes that old flutter in her belly. The hint of excitement brought about by the knowledge that soon the action will start.

Even as she thinks that the door un-suctions and the preparation group enters in a rush of anticipation and energy. The room fairly crackles with it. They give her a respectful nod and slow their steps for a beat or two, but it is a temporary change. They are back at full speed, calling out their checklists to each other as they ready their respective stations.

The runner —no longer a cleaner she reminds herself yet again— enters with his training team and the last of his suit team. He’s a long and lean young man, vibrant with good health and energy. Marina examines his face as he passes but sees no fear there, only purpose.

He’s already wearing his skin suit, its support systems put in place in the privacy of the medical prep room. She can see the little bulge where a pouch is affixed to his leg underneath the suit, ready should he find it necessary to urinate. Her fingers twist along the pen as she considers whether or not to include such intimate details in her report.

More bulges along the back of his shoulders show where all the battery packs have been placed. It is safest inside the skin suit, which is the last thing that will breech if the worst happens. The coated wire harness that will attach to his helmet electronics bounces behind him as he walks. To Marina it looks like the upraised tail of a cat in fine fettle.

The suit team springs into action the moment he nods his readiness. The council had trailed in behind him, some holding back a bit and others hot on his heels depending on their personality. While some of them watch with anxious expressions, the ones who hung back look like they are trying not to see what is going on at all. Marina can understand this well. The paradigm of who is chosen to clean is a firm one and hard for many to break, some of the council included.

Until today, there have only been two successful recoveries of cleaners but they are the most recent two which gives them reason for hope. Both were terminally ill, as the laws required, and both were volunteers. Today it is a very different situation. This young man is at the prime of his life and in perfect health. It is true that he is also a volunteer and that he competed with unwavering devotion for this day, but it still seems wrong in many respects. Some changes are harder to accept than others.

Marina flips open her book again as the suit team gets to work. Portable oxygen tanks cadged from the hospital have been filled and fitted. That and the small scrubber for his exhalations are fitted to his back at exactly the spots his training has determined are the best for his gait and endurance. The hoses are threaded through the routing ties and create another tail for the runner, this time in front of his chin. The young man doesn’t seem to mind his increasing encumbrance and gives the girl on the suit team that adjusted it for him a wink and a smile.

The innermost suit layer is snug but not as tight as the skin suit and it crinkles noisily as they tug it on over his body. The sealing of this layer is as complete as it would be for one of the old single layer suits. Only the stiff ring that will fit into the innermost groove of the helmet seal is left unattached.

The looser second layer is tinted red as a signal that his time outside has come to an end. The many tests they have done all confirm that having the innermost suit still sealed is crucial to a successful recovery. If the runner sees that red peeking out at any of the places where the suit seems to wear fastest then he knows that he must return without delay.

The outer suit is the recognizable one. It isn’t that much different from the suits they have been using for many years, though much improved from the suits that still sit unused in the vaults. The care with which it is sealed is obsessively perfect.

Marina gives a start when she hears him speak suddenly, along with everyone else in the room.

“Any chance I’ve got time to take a poo?”

Though it is funny on its own, given the situation and his complete encapsulation in three suit layers, it was the expression on the suit-fitter that made it hilarious. The expressions that cross his face combine shock, embarrassment and absolute helplessness against the layers of suit.

The runner winks and says, “Just kidding,” which sent everyone around him into gales of laughter.

The suit fitter makes a wry face and replies, “You’re such a dick, Henry.” After a pause, the roll of heat tape still dangling from his fingers, he makes a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. He drops the tape and grabs the runner in a tight hug.

After an awkward beat, Henry returns the hug and pats the fitter’s back. Marina dips her pen and scribbles a description of the scene as quickly as she can, giving a quick nod to one of the artists standing by to do the same in pictures. He goes straight to work and Marina can confidently forget the artist for the moment.

All the artists present are all in the employ of the Historians for today and look to her for guidance. She has to remind herself not to put them too far out of her mind. It is her responsibility to make sure this important event is recorded for posterity.

She makes a quick note to find out the story of the fitter. How does he know Henry and what is their relationship? They look about the same age or thereabouts, so perhaps they went to school together or were playmates in childhood. When she looks up again, the two have disengaged and are performing the same manly postures all men do after moments of emotion. Marina suppresses a smile since a woman smiling knowingly during such moments is never much of a help.

The last bits of the suit are hooked up and Henry tests the transmitter key on his leg beneath the suits. The click, click on his leg sounds out as beeps on the control console across the room. The code is slow and cumbersome, requiring long and short taps of the key to create letters, but it is a safe backup should anything go wrong with the suit communications in his helmet.

At a nod from the operator, Henry stops keying and flexes his hands inside the constricting gloves. Marina jots down those first signs of nervousness in her book. The tight lines of Henry’s face are a shade paler than they had been only moments before. She gives another directive look toward the line of artists, all of them glancing her way at her movement, and the next one in line immediately bends to put a few broad sweeps on his paper and board. Each of them has been selected for their ability to capture ephemeral moments quickly, to imply detail without actually putting it to paper. She hopes they will perform as well as they need to. There are no do-overs.

Two of the suit mechanics lift the backpack to Henry’s frame and began the process of connecting it to him. It is only the frame for now to keep the weight down while they can. The entire system has been designed and built just for Henry’s weight, stride and strengths and it is a marvel to Marina. The gaps within the framework fit perfectly around the bumps and bulges of his tanks and all the rest beneath his suit.

The cage that will hold the glass balls, glass being one of the few things that isn’t structurally affected by whatever it is outside, is handy to one side so that each new ball will roll down the slide and be exactly within reach when he needs it.

On the other side are the two springy bits of steel where two other glass balls will be held. They are different and special, though. Each will hold a precious camera pried from one of the thousands of derelict computers within the silo on a gimbal. This mean that it can be tossed but the camera inside will always turn to face the side when rolls to a stop. They won’t work for long but that doesn’t matter. The batteries inside will wear down quickly under the drain of the transmitter and the camera, but while they do they will provide vital information to those inside and watching.

One of the electrical engineers brings the two precious balls forward and Henry taps a key on his other leg. A green light glows briefly inside one of the balls and then goes out just as quickly with a second tap. Another couple of taps, on another key presumably, and the same happens inside the other ball. A grave but satisfied nod from the engineer is his only reply before he walks away with cautious steps.

The most important part of suiting up is still to come. It is also the most frightening part of the process. It will separate Henry from the silo in every way until he returns, if he returns. The helmet rests inside a cushioned box and Henry glances that way, knowing that will be next. But that won’t happen until he is in the airlock proper to conserve his air.

At a nod, Henry’s mother and father are let inside the space. They must have been waiting outside the door the whole time because they rush in and head directly for their son. Both give him careful but slightly desperate hugs and his mother touches his face all over. Marina can see that she is doing her best to be brave but the tremors of emotion that flit across her face are heartbreaking in their intensity.

She gives another nod toward the artists and another of them sets to work. The first artist has removed the paper from his board and is already smoothing down a new sheet in readiness. Their speed is impressive.

When the hugs are done, it is Henry that tells them to go rather than the control room personnel. Marina watches him tell them that he will be fine with utmost confidence and give them both a jaunty smile. He keeps the smile on until the door closes behind them and then it falls away in swift stages.

The mood in the room has shifted somehow in the small moment between them opening the door and it closing behind them. It has become all business and tense but not in a way that feels bad. It’s more like the tension that comes from focusing on a job so that it will be well done and that is, paradoxically, a tension that feels good and full of purpose. Marina notes it in her book because it seems like something very easy to forget when recalling the scene later.

The whole production now moves toward the airlocks and the rest of the operation crew file in the outer door and proceed directly toward their stations. Someone comes and helps Marina up so she can follow the smaller group. By the time she is lowered into a chair close by the first airlock, Henry is already inside with the helmet fitter.

The helmet, though much like the original in general shape, is a very different affair in almost every way. Before being lowered over his head, the wire harness is hooked up and there is a sudden burst of sound behind them as two of the screens blaze to life with color and sound. Henry’s breathing is amplified painfully into the room and the operator scrambles to lower the sound to a more useful level.

After a thumbs-up, the system is shut down to conserve battery power and Marina watches as the screen darkens once more. Once the helmet is lowered, time becomes the enemy so the speed of everything has to pick up considerably. The first ring from the suit is clamped in place around the helmet, then the second and finally the outer suit ring. This will keep Henry safer because all three suits have to breech before contaminated air gets into his helmet.

The mouthpiece is awkward. The face piece looks a bit like a cone and keeps the lower half of his face out of view even when not engaged, but he can still speak. In order to seal it, he will have to shove his head forward inside the helmet, grab the mouthpiece with his mouth and clamp down on it. If that happens, and they are hoping it won’t, then he will no longer be able to speak and will be forced to use his leg key. The only reason for him to use that face piece would be in the case of a suit breech all the way into the inner layer.

They have found through terrible experience that getting whatever it is out there inside of the body is a sure path to death. Survival after topical exposure, at least for some period of time, is much more likely. Marina knows without looking that somewhere amongst the equipment at the various stations are irons which can be heated quickly and used against skin that is exposed. It is painful and not guaranteed, but it worked the only time they had tried it previous to this.

The last cleaner had worn through one knee of his suit quickly after a fall. It seems that anyplace there is friction, or where the suit faces the wind, the process of disintegration is faster. That cleaner’s breech had been very small, an area no more than a couple of inches across. The idea of using heat had come from a suit designer. His logic was that fire had once been used to cleanse the airlock of toxin so why wouldn’t it do the same when directly applied.

The whole process had been gruesome from what Marina read afterward and she was heartily glad not to have been there. But it had worked. That cleaner, afflicted with what was believed to be cancer of the lungs, lived without effect until it took him three months later. In quarantine for some of that time, he spent a halcyon month as a celebrity before he took to his bed for the last time.

Marina would rather not think about the iron and turns her gaze back to the runner. With his helmet in place, the cone rests in front of his face but she can see the smile in his eyes. He gives another thumbs-up to let them know the air is coming out of it at the rate it should. Marina knows from the briefings that it will be a very slow trickle rather than a stream. It is enough to keep him oxygenated but not enough to require any be vented. The scrubber will do the rest.

The ripping sound of more heat tape breaks the tense quiet and the helmet is finally fully sealed against encroachment. The secondary fitter and the quality checker go around Henry quickly but thoroughly, calling out a continuous stream of “Check” as each checklist item is called out. One hearty slap on the back for Henry, to get through all the layers, and he is ready to go.

The technicians leave the airlock and it is sealed with a clank of metal that many in the room flinch at. Marina notes that as well. From her seat, Marina can see Henry’s helmeted head through the little round window much like the one she looked through countless times during her former life as a Fabber. He turns to face forward with no ceremony and the process begins. It is almost anticlimactic.

Chapter Three

Henry operates the second airlock himself and enters the mid-station. The door is actually the original airlock door but it has been extensively reworked. He seals it behind him and at the noise of it, the operator stations blaze to life once more. Henry’s reflected face shows up five feet tall on one of the screens while the door of the final section of airlock spins into view as he turns.

The shiny inside of the helmet is reflective enough that they have been able to have both cameras facing outward, one slightly offset to get more of the view. His ghostly reflection is more than enough to assess Henry’s situation though it is somewhat disconcerting, as if he were already halfway gone.

Marina, along with everyone else, watches as Henry’s view shifts slightly up and then back down. He has taken a deep and fortifying breath. His eyes narrow above the dark swath of the face cone and his hand appears in the view as he opens the door to enter the final bit of the airlock. He points with his head toward the door behind him to show that he has sealed it fully and the light that turned red when he opened it flashes back to green to confirm closure. The operators at the consoles give their confirmations and then the airlock operators start their work.

Through Henry’s helmet Marina sees the patter of droplets that rain down on him from the nozzles inside. The gas that was once used is now more just as the automated door mechanism is defunct. Marina now understands that this happened at the time of the First Heroes, but before her discovery of the Graham and Wallis books, it had been something they knew, but didn’t understand well. These nozzles are their own design and are nothing more than a fancy shower.

The solution the covers Henry is mostly water, but it contains a complex mix of chemicals that create an almost filmy layer on the suit. Marina dipped a finger into the solution before it was ported up to Level 1 and thought it strange. When she rubbed her fingers together they were slick and slippery but at the same time they felt like there was nothing there at all. She could see the glisten of the wetness on her fingertips, but could not feel it. The solution was years in the making.

They test coated several items, including suit fabric, and exposed it in the outer airlock with the door open. Whatever is in the air outside, it doesn’t like the juice at all. The uncoated items were pitted and eroded within moments. The coated ones barely touched. Even raw meat soaked in the fluid appeared less impacted than the uncoated slab.

The only downside is that the fluid is intensely irritating to the skin. When applied to humans —mostly technical personnel who volunteer too easily to test their new toys— it creates a burning rash that is intolerable. That irritation soon turns into watery blisters if the solution remains. And the only really effective way to wash it off is immersion in a tank full of water heavily dosed with laundry soap.

Everyone’s view skews as Henry rotates; lifting his arms and legs in turn to ensure he is as coated as he can possibly get. The hiss of the spray ceases abruptly and Henry faces forward once more. His eyes have gone from narrow to wide and almost surprised. A few calming words come from the operator so others in the room must have also noticed those widened eyes. The camera bobs as he nods and then says, “Let’s do this thing. I’m burning air, here.”

Deep rumbling noises from the airlock doors opening begin almost immediately and the vibration can be felt all the way to Marina’s chair. She grits her teeth and nods to an artist to capture the operators and the screen. The rest of them have their eyes as glued to the screens as everyone else. What she sees almost captures her, too.

The door has begun to open.

Chapter Four

Henry’s head bobs up and down as he bounces, anxious for the doors to open completely enough for him to start his run. A few of the heads in the control room bob a little too in unconscious sympathy with what they see.

Marina knows that Henry is fully aware that he mustn’t try to push the envelope and squeeze through the gap in the doors. What he has on his body increases his bulk substantially and he can ill afford to have any of it damaged, least of all his suit.

A puff of dust laden wind pushes its way into the gap and makes the bright light outside hazy and beautiful for a moment. Henry raises a hand to clear his helmet, and a few people in the room gasp, but stops himself just in time. The coating is important for his gloves and brushing it away on his helmet is not a good idea so early in his run.

When the opening is wide enough, the operator calls out a sharp, “Go!”, and Henry doesn’t pause for even a moment. He grabs the tank with the power wand that is waiting for him and bursts forward with long, confident strides. The tilt of the ramp looks so strange from her position in a chair that Marina feels a touch of vertigo. It lasts for only a moment and she regains the presence of mind to call out a sharp, “Draw”.

One of the artists calls back, “Got it!”, and starts without taking his eyes from the moving image.

Henry breeches the level ground beyond the ramp and it is a very strange thing to see. Perhaps it is the human element of his reflected face, but the world seems much larger through that helmet than in the view screen they see in the cafeteria. Or perhaps it is that the view is moving rapidly as he turns and scans the area while the one in the cafeteria is static and eternally still.

What he is doing is all a part of his script. Stop, turn a full 360 and show the view, turn back to the silo itself and stop again. He is doing it so perfectly it is like he is reciting it in his head. Perhaps he is. The operator who is in charge of speaking with Henry throughout his run gives him a confirming check for the next stage.

Henry brings up the wand and a blast of their solution comes screaming out of the tank at the flick of his finger. It is under pressure and meant to work quickly and completely. If there is time, Henry will put on the ablative film during his return run, but that is not their priority. The view is still in pretty good shape for now and the blast from their washing tank should be enough to clean it.

They all hear the whine as the pressure bleeds out of the tank and Henry mutters an expletive as he fumbles with the handle wheel. He must get it closed before the pressure is completely lost or they can’t bring it back inside. The danger of contamination would simply be too great. He manages it, the whine weaker but still audible through the helmet, when it abruptly stops at the same moment his hand stops turning the wheel.

He gives the tank a gentle underhand toss toward the head of the ramp and it lands solidly in the sandy dirt, ready to be grabbed and brought back. He turns without hesitation, making Marina dizzy in the process as she watches it on the screen. Henry runs to the rise that surrounds them and crests it. He examines the view in the only safe direction they are aware of, just as he’s been briefed to.

The diagram on the wall has been based on everything Marina and the other Historians have been able to glean from Graham’s books and what past cleaners reported. There is a wide wedge drawn on it, extending from their silo to the unknown that lies beyond it. But that wedge is in a specific direction because all who understand their situation agree that going near any other silo will bring nothing but disaster.

There are too many unknowns. Too many strange occurrences have been noted in the last decades. A column of dust and dirt was seen boiling up from the surface at the edge of their viewscreen some years ago. The council knew that another silo lay in that direction and such a disturbance did not bode well for any peaceful meeting in that direction. On another occasion the Watch reported sighting a trio of figures walking along the ridge line in the dark of night, though no one else saw them.

No matter what might be going on elsewhere, the wedge is the safe direction. It is away from the array of silos and it is where none have gone before. They are very fortunate that their silo is in the outer perimeter of silos and Marina knows this fact alone gives hope.

Marina raises a hand and says, “Draw.” One of the artists has already begun and Marina is glad that they understand what is important to her and the rest of the silo.

The operator gives some instructions, which reverberate back from the speaker in Henry’s helmet so that it sounds like two men are reciting the same thing but have poor timing. Henry responds and turns his head to capture the view. He stays steady while the details are noted, only the sound of his measured breathing in the speakers.

The operator and his echo ask, “Henry, what’s the feeling out there today?”

Henry’s helmet jiggles and Marina sees his reflected eyes dart about for a moment. “There’s a little breeze, maybe a touch stronger than the silo norm. It’s pretty clear, too. I can see a good distance. More than I thought. No evidence of anyone around.”

“Good. Now go for the program. Do you have your point to run to?”

Henry’s view shivers a little as he points the helmet and it’s camera directly at a ragged disturbance in the direction of the catchment lake, which isn’t visible at this distance but is known to exist somewhere beyond their range of sight. Marina sees another artist dip his head to begin drawing and nods in satisfaction.

“That’s my direction. Verify, please.” Henry is polite even while he is outside and under the most severe stress any silo person can ever experience.

The operator turns to Marina, as does the rest of the council. She knows the structure is the one reported by former cleaners and is well within the safe wedge. She gives them a nod and the operator immediately turns away.

“Henry, you are a go for run. I repeat, you are a go for your run. Run!”

Chapter Five

Marina finds herself unable to continue looking directly at the screen almost immediately. When she tears her gaze away and looks about her she can clearly see that others are feeling the same. Hands are reaching for the backs of chairs for support and heads are bowing. Even the artists are looking away. One of them has turned quite pale and is gripping his drawing board as if he might vomit.

It’s the bouncing that is doing it. No one with any real vigor has ever gone outside that Marina is aware of. Previous expeditions consisted primarily of the plodding gait of a fading life, not the wide open run of someone at the peak of health. The view through the helmet is absolutely nauseating. That there are two views, one camera offset just a little from the other, just makes it worse because they are not exactly even. One is pointed a bit further up than the other and it makes the whole room seem like it is tilting.

With a hard swallow, Marina looks back up at the screens. She is responsible for recording everything she can. There are other watchers in the room who are supposed to provide their own viewpoint, as are the artists of course, but she is ultimately responsible. It isn’t any better and Marina spreads her feet a little on the floor so she’ll feel more stable as the view in front of the runner bounces and jags with unpredictable movements.

One of the operators at the consoles yells out, “Five minutes!”

There is a sort of collective sigh around them. It is part relief but also part fear. They have never had anyone go fast or far. To date, forays outside by cleaners have been frail and slow and lucky to get done what needed doing before they shuffled off, sucked down their poppy extract, and collapsed behind the silo where no one inside can see them. No one has ever taken off like this and it is breathtaking and frightening and terribly exciting.

The jagged bit in the distance that Henry is aiming for doesn’t look any closer to Marina, but added to that jagged bit is a darker shadow on the ground at such a great distance that it is more a suggestion than anything definable. Marina waves at one of the artists to come over. He does, craning his neck to keep watching the screens as he approaches.

“Do you see anything there, to the right of his marker?” she asks him, nodding toward the screen. “Can you tell me what it is?”

He turns away to examine the screen and Marina watches him. He sees it too, his eyes squinting a little and his head tilted to the side. “I’m not sure. It seems large and on the ground. Flat. Perhaps a land feature?”

Marina nods, her mouth tight. This is more than they had expected. She and the rest of the Historians had assumed that the blotch on the map marked ‘Catchment Lake’ was far away. Further than this anyway. But the land is sloping downward a little in front of Henry. Even she can see that. She plucks his sleeve to regain his attention and he tears his gaze from the screen reluctantly.

“Young man, I want you to focus on that feature. It may be very important. The distance is what I want most of all. If you can get anything about it on paper then you must.”

Marina tries to put the import of what she wants in her words and it appears to have worked because the young man’s expression turns grave. “I will. I will get everything that can be gotten. You can count on me, ma’am.”

She gives his arm a little pat and shoos him back with a wave. “Good, good. See me directly after so that I can take down your impressions before they fade.”

He nods and goes back to his seat, almost immediately setting his writing stick to a fresh sheet of paper. Marina looks back at the view and thinks that the shadow is clearer now, darker. Time passes and she finds that she is getting used to the bouncing scene, her own body straining and relaxing as if she were the one running.

The sound feed from Henry’s helmet is limited to his breathing and short acknowledgements of the times as they are called out. Ten minutes, fifteen and then twenty minutes pass and then Henry is directed to stop and look at his suit. He holds out his arms and looks at his legs and the murmurs in the room increase in volume as the suit engineers discuss what they are seeing.

Henry is covered with a fine layer of dust that has glued itself to him via the slippery film. It is only the finest of the grains that have stuck and his suit looks almost as tan as the Sheriff’s in places. What is worrisome is the ragged look of the suit along the front of his thighs, on his forearms and on the back sides of his hands. To Marina, it almost looks fuzzy.

Marina sees Henry’s reflection better now that he is standing still and sees that he is sweating. A small computer fan inside the helmet is keeping it from fogging up, but it doesn’t do much to ease the heat that builds up inside quickly.

Marina is sure that this is the cool part of the year because the days are at their shortest. The single volume of the Legacy they have describes the solar system and they have been able to learn and confirm this much in thirty years. Even so, he is wearing a lot of layers and keeping most of his heat inside.

The operator asks for a close up of his arm again and then the suit engineers give their verdict. The operator pauses, as if he doesn’t like what he’s being told to say. He shakes his head, but leans toward the microphone anyway. “Henry, that suit looks good enough to keep going. But keep an eye on your arms and hands. At the first sight of red you turn around. Got it?”

Henry nods inside the helmet and then says, “Got it!” He is running at full speed almost immediately and the sound his feet make on the rough ground sounds a bit like someone chewing a mouth full of seeds.

The council medic is clearly upset with the suit engineers and pushes one of them aside to speak to the operations crew. He raises his voice enough for the council members to hear, which means that everyone can hear him. “His suit is one thing, his endurance is another. He isn’t going to be able to run back as fast as he ran out there. It’s a pretty simple equation. He shouldn’t stay out until he sees red. He should turn back before that.” He pauses and jerks his hand toward the screen where Henry’s breathing sounds out loudly like a second opinion. “Anyone disagree?”

Marina watches them make up their minds and she can see the battles going on inside each of them. A movement out of the corner of her eye draws her attention. It is the artist she assigned to monitor the feature in the distance. He is standing, jaws agape while he stares at the screen and then he starts to make a choking noise.

As she whips her head back toward the screen, Henry’s voice sounds out as do a few others in the room. Henry’s is amplified and dominates the weaker voices inside. “Do you see that? Does anyone see that?” He sounds almost afraid and his fuzzy looking arm rises and points toward a spot in the distance, far to the left of the jagged shape he’s been aiming for.

She does see it. Everyone sees it. A chair falls backward and clangs on the floor. The operator shakes out of what is gripping them all first and slams the talk button on his microphone. “We see it, Henry! Describe it for us so we know we’re seeing what you’re seeing!”

Henry is still breathing heavy and his words come out tight in between his gulps of air. “It’s blue. It’s a patch of blue. There’s brown around it, like maybe the blue is past a hole of some kind in the dirt. I can’t describe it. It’s moving though.”

His pointing finger draws a line in the air, up and down. He says, “It’s changing shape. Getting longer and skinnier.”

One of the artists calls out, “Oh no! I think it’s going!”

Marina stumbles from her chair, hips grinding with pain, and yells toward the operator. “Get the direction! Don’t let him turn until we have a direction!” She can see that the patch is disappearing and knows they will never be able to precisely identify where it was once it is gone if he moves even the slightest amount.

The operations crew and two of the artists spring into action. Marina just stares at the shrinking patch of blue. It is already less blue than before, smudged with the brown of the dusty wind and not nearly as brilliant a shade. She can hear Henry’s sound of distress as the last streamers of blue abruptly disappear. It sounds like a sob and she can see in his reflection the grief there, even on only the upper half of his face.

The operator turns to the room and shouts, “We’ve got it! The direction! We’ve got it!”

The room erupts in yells and shouts and laughter and tears. It is a frantic scene and that is bad. They still have a runner out there.

Marina lifts her metal chair and bangs it on the ground several times to get the attention of the room. When the operator, who has jumped up and started hugging the other console operators, finally turns to her she says, “Bring our runner home.”