Second Shift - Order

•10•

Mission slunk away after the fight with the farmers as the rest of the porters scattered. He stole a few hours of sleep at the upper waystation, his nose numb and lips throbbing from a blow he’d suffered. Tossing and turning, too restless to stay put, he rose in the dim-time and realized it was early yet to go to the Nest. The Crow would still be asleep. And so he headed to the cafeteria for a sunrise and a decent breakfast, the coroner’s bonus burning in his pockets the way his knuckles burned from their scrapes.

He nursed his aches with a welcomed hot meal, eating with those coming off a midnight shift, and watched the clouds boil and come to life across the hills. The towering husks in the distance—the Crow called them buildings—were the first to catch the rising sun. It was a sign that the world would wake one more day. His birthday, Mission realized. And he regretted coming up there. He left his dishes on the table, a chit for whoever cleaned after him, and tried not to think of cleaning at all. Instead, he rushed down the eight flights of stairs before the silo fully woke. He headed toward the Nest, feeling not a day older at all.

Familiar words greeted him at the landing of the eighth. There, above the door, rather than a level number it read:

The words were painted in bright and blocky letters. They followed the outlines from years and generations prior, color piled on color, letters crooked and bent from more than one young hand’s involvement. Where the paint had gone outside the lines, silo gray had been slapped on top to try and cover it up.

Mission remembered helping with the latest coat. Another would be needed soon. Already, a prior color from another age could be seen through the blues and purples that he and his friends had chosen. And where the blue paint was thin and the color beneath had chipped away, a third layer could be seen beyond. It was like peering into the past. For all he knew, there could be five or six layers hidden beneath. The children of the silo came and went and left their marks with bristles, but the Old Crow remained.

Her nest comprised the nursery, day school, and classrooms that served the Up Top. She had been perched there for longer than any alive could remember. Some said she was as old as the silo itself, but Mission knew that was just a legend. He’d heard it said that the limits to the silo were the limits to life, that no one could ever reach a hundred and fifty in age. This, he believed. His uncle had been one third that when he died. Most people never reached half the levels in age. But the Crow wasn’t most people.

He passed beneath the door and reached up to slap the paint as he went. A small hop where terrible leaps were once needed. He remembered employing a ladder before that, spilling a bucket of blue paint, hearing the complaints from Fourteen as it dribbled down. Maybe that’s where the idea for the plasticwrap paintbombs had come from. It must’ve been. Kids playing at the wars their fathers had fought. Screams fading to laughter over time—warlike grunts into giggles—chasing each other with imaginary weapons and kitchen utensils, fighting over who got to be Security and who had to play the bad guys.

Mission remembered how exciting those adventures had felt. Such joyous times now seemed sad as they became truer and truer.

He entered the Nest to find the hallways empty and quiet, the hour early still. There was a soft screech from one classroom as desks were put back into order. Mission caught a glimpse of two teachers conferring in another classroom, their faces scrunched up with worry, probably wondering what to do with a younger version of himself. The scent of strong tea mixed with the odor of paste and chalk. There were rows of metal lockers in dire need of paint and stippled with dents from tiny fists; they transported Mission back to another age. Just yesterday, he was terrorizing that hall. He and all his friends whom he didn’t see anymore—not as often as he’d like.

The Crow’s room was at the far end adjoining the only apartment on the entire level. The apartment had been built especially for her, converted from a classroom, or so they said. And while she only taught the youngest children anymore, the entire school was hers. This was her nest, her aerie.

Mission remembered coming to her at various stages of his life. Early on, for comfort, feeling so very far from the farms. Later, for wisdom, when he was finally old enough to admit he had none. And more than once he had come for both, like the day he had learned the truth of his birth and his mother’s death—that she had been sent to clean because of him. Mission remembered that day well. It was the only time he’d seen the Old Crow cry.

He knocked on her classroom door before entering and found her at the blackboard that’d been lowered so she could write on it from her chair. Mrs. Crowe stopped erasing yesterday’s lessons, turned, and beamed at him.

“My boy,” she croaked. She smiled and waved with the eraser to beckon him closer, a chalky haze filling the air. “My boy, my boy.”

“Hello, Mrs. Crowe.” Mission passed through the handful of desks to get to her. The power line for her electric chair drooped from the center of the ceiling to the pole that rose up from the chair’s back. Mission ducked beneath it as he got closer and bent to give the Crow a hug. His hands wrapped around her and the chair both, and her smell was one of childhood and innocence. The yellow gown she wore, spotted with flowers, was her Wednesday fare, as good as any calendar. It had faded since Mission’s time, as all things had.

“I do believe you’ve grown,” she said, smiling up at him. Her voice was a bare whisper, and he recalled how it kept even the young ones quiet as death so they could hear what was being said. She brought her hand up and touched her own cheek. “What happened to your face?”

Mission laughed and shrugged off his porter’s pack. “Just an accident,” he said, lying to her like old times. He placed his pack at the foot of one of the tiny desks, could imagine squeezing into the thing and staying for the day’s lesson. He noticed only a handful of the chairs were arranged for use. The rest were shoved against the back wall, waiting for the next boom, the next surge in population.

“How’ve you been?” he asked. He studied her face, the deep wrinkles and dark skin like a farmer’s but from age rather than grow lights. Her eyes were rheumy, but there was a life behind them. They reminded Mission of the wallscreens on a bright day but in dire need of a cleaning.

“Not so good,” Mrs. Crowe said. She twisted the lever on her armrest, and the chair built for her decades ago by some long-gone former student whirred around to better face him. Pulling back her sleeve, she showed Mission a gauze bandage taped to her thin and splotchy arm. “Those doctors came and took my blood away!” Her hand shook as she indicated the evidence. “Took half of it, by my reckoning.”

Mission laughed. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t take half your blood, Mrs. Crowe. The doctors are just looking out for you.”

She twisted up her face, an explosion of wrinkles like a palm as it closed into a fist. She didn’t seem so sure. “I don’t trust them,” she said.

Mission smiled. “You don’t trust anyone. And hey, maybe they’re just trying to figure out why you can’t die like everyone else does. Maybe they’ll come up with a way for everyone to live as long as you some day.”

Mrs. Crowe rubbed the bandage on her withering arm. “Or they’re sorting out how to kill me,” she said.

“Oh, don’t be so sinister.” Mission reached forward and pulled her sleeve down to keep her from messing with the bandage. “Why would you think such a thing?”

She frowned and declined to answer. Her eyes fell to his sagging and mostly empty pack. “Day off?” she asked.

Mission turned and followed her gaze. “Hmm? Oh, no. I dropped off last night. I’ll pick up another delivery in a little bit, take it wherever they tell me to.”

“Oh, to be so young and free again.” Mrs. Crowe spun her chair around and steered it behind her desk. Mission ducked beneath the pivoting wire out of habit; the pole at the back of the chair was made with younger heads in mind. She picked up a container of the vile vegetable pulp she preferred over water and took a sip. “Allie stopped by last week.” She set the greenish-black fluid down. “She was asking about you. Wanted to know if you were still single.”

“Oh?” Mission could feel his temperature shoot up. Mrs. Crowe had caught them kissing once, back before he knew what kissing was for. She had left them with a warning and a knowing smile. “I saw Jenine yesterday,” Mission said, changing the subject, hoping she might take the hint. “Everyone’s so spread out.”

“As it should be.” The Crow opened a drawer on her desk and rummaged around, came out with an envelope. Mission could see a half-dozen names scratched out across the thing. It’d been used a handful of times. “You’re heading down from here? Maybe you could drop off something for Rodny?”

She held out the letter. Mission took it, saw his best friend’s name written on the outside, all the other names crossed out.

“I can leave it for him, sure. The last two times I stopped by there, they said he was unavailable.”

Mrs. Crowe nodded as if this was to be expected. “Ask for Jeffery, he’s the head of security down there, one of my boys. You tell him that this is from me and that I said you should hand it to Rodny yourself. In person.” She waved her hands in the air, little trembling blurs. “I’ll write Jeffery a note.”

Mission glanced up at the clock on the wall while she dug into her desk for a pen and ink. Soon, the hallways would begin filling with youthful chatter and the opening and slamming of lockers. He waited patiently while she scratched her note. In the while, he scanned the walls at the old motivators, as Mrs. Crowe like to call the posters and banners she made.

You can be anything, one of them said. It featured a crude drawing of a boy and a girl standing on a huge mound. The mound was green and the sky blue, just like in the picture books. Another one said: Dream to your heart’s delight. It had bands of color in a graceful sweep. The Crow had a name for the shape, but he’d forgotten what it was called. Another familiar one: Go new places. It featured a drawing of a crow perched in an impossibly large tree, it’s wings spread as if it were about to take flight.

“Jeffery is the bald one,” Mrs. Crowe said. She waved a hand over her own white and thinning hair to demonstrate.

“I know the one,” Mission said. It was a strange reminder that so many of the adults and elders throughout the silo had been her students as well. A locker was slammed in the hallway. Mission remembered when he was a kid how the rows and rows of tiny desks had filled the room. There were cubbies full of rolled mats for nap time, reminding him of the daily routine of clearing a space in the middle of the floor, finding his mat, and drifting off to sleep while the Crow sang to them. He missed those days. He missed the Old Time stories about a world full of impossible things. Leaning against that little desk, Mission suddenly felt as ancient as the Crow, just as impossibly distant from his youth.

“Give Jeffery this, and then see that Rodny gets my note. From you personally, okay?”

He grabbed his pack and slid both pieces of correspondence into his courier pouch. There was no mention of payment, just the twinge of guilt Mission felt for even thinking it. Digging into the pack reminded him of the items he had brought her, forgotten due to the previous night’s brawl.

“Oh, I brought you these from the farm.” He pulled out a few small cucumbers, two peppers, and a large tomato. He placed them on her desk. “For your veggie drinks,” he said.

Mrs. Crowe clasped her hands together and smiled with delight.

“Is there anything else you need next time I’m passing by?”

“These visits,” she said, her face a wrinkle of smiles. “All I care about are my little ones. Stop by whenever you can, okay?”

Mission squeezed her arm, which felt like a broomstick tucked into a sleeve. “I will,” he said. “And that reminds me: Jenine, Frankie, and Steven all told me to tell you hello. And I’m probably forgetting someone.”

“Those boys should come more often,” she told him, her voice a quiver.

“Not everyone gets around like I do,” he said. “I’m sure they’d like to see you more often as well.”

“You tell them,” she said. “Tell them I don’t have much time left—”

Mission laughed and waved off the morbid thought. “You probably told my grandfather the same thing when he was young, and his father before him.”

The Crow smiled as if this were true. “Predict the inevitable,” she said, “and you’re bound to be right one day.”

Mission smiled. He liked that. “Still, I wish you wouldn’t talk about dying. Nobody likes to hear it.”

“They may not like it, but a reminder is good.” She held out her arms, the sleeves of her flowered dress falling away and revealing the bandage once more. “Tell me, what do you see when you look at these hands?” She turned them over, back and forth. She studied them as if they belonged to another.

“I see time,” Mission blurted out, not sure where the thought came from. He tore his eyes away, suddenly finding her skin to be grotesque. Like shriveled potatoes found deep in the soil long after harvest time. He hated himself for feeling it.

“Time, sure,” Mrs. Crowe said. “There’s time here aplenty. But there’s remnants, too. I remember things being better, once. You think on the bad to remind yourself of the good.”

She studied her hands a moment longer as if looking for something else. When she lifted her gaze and peered at Mission, her eyes were shining with sadness. Mission could feel his own eyes watering, partly from discomfort, partly due to the somber pall that had been cast like a cold and wet blanket over the conversation. It reminded him that today was his birthday, a thought that tightened his neck and emptied his chest. He was sure the Crow knew what day it was. She just loved him enough not to say.

“I was beautiful, once, you know.” Mrs. Crowe withdrew her hands and folded them in her lap. “Once that’s gone, once it leaves us for good, no one will ever see it again.”

Mission felt a powerful urge to soothe her, to tell Mrs. Crowe that she was still beautiful in plenty of ways. She could still make music. Could paint. Few others remembered how. She could make children feel loved and safe, another bit of magic long forgotten.

“When I was your age,” the Crow said, smiling, “I could have any boy I wanted.”

She laughed, dispelling the tension and casting away the shadows that had fallen over their talk, but Mission believed her. He believed her even though he couldn’t picture it, couldn’t imagine away the wrinkles and the spots and the long strands of hair on her knuckles. Still, he believed her. He always did.

“The world is a lot like me, you know.” She lifted her gaze toward the ceiling and perhaps beyond. “The world was beautiful once, too.”

Mission sensed an Old Time story brewing like a storm of clouds. More lockers were slammed in the hallway, little voices gathering.

“Tell me,” Mission said, remembering the hours that had passed like eyeblinks at her feet, the songs she sang while children slept. “Tell me about the old world.”

The Old Crow’s eyes narrowed and settled on a dark corner of the room. A deep breath rattled in her once-proud chest. Her lips, furrowed with the wrinkles of time, parted, and a story began, a story Mission had heard a thousand times before. But it never got old, visiting this land of the Crow’s imagination. And as the little ones skipped into the room, they too fell silent and gathered around. They slipped into their tiny desks and followed along with the widest of eyes and the most open of unknowing minds these tales of a world, once beautiful, and now fairly forgotten.

•11•

The stories Mrs. Crowe made up were straight from the children’s books. There were blue skies and lands of green, white clouds and rainbows, animals like dogs and cats but bigger than people. Juvenile stuff. And yet, these fantastic tales of a better place somewhere impossibly distant left Mission feeling angry at the world he was stuck with. He thought this as he left the Up Top behind and wound his way past the farms and the levels of his youth. The promise of an elsewhere highlighted the flaws of the familiar. He had gone off to be a porter, to fly away and be all that he wished, and what he wished was to be further away than this world would allow.

These were dangerous thoughts. They reminded him of his mother and where she had been sent seventeen years ago to the day.

Past the farms, Mission noted something burning further down the silo. The air was hazy, and there was the bitter tinge of smoke on the back of his tongue. A trash pile, maybe. Someone who didn’t want to pay the fee to have it ported to recycling. Or someone who didn’t think the silo would be around long enough to need to recycle.

It could be an accident, of course. It could be a legitimate danger. But that’s not where Mission’s mind went. Nobody thought that way anymore. He could see it on the faces of those on the stairwell. He could see by the way belongings were clutched, children sheltered, that the future of everything was in doubt. There hadn’t been nearly as much new graffiti lately. Even the delinquents had begun to wonder: What’s the point?

Mission adjusted his light pack and hurried down to the IT levels. He remembered his father’s talk of restoring the silo after the last outbreak of violence. There were physical things to patch, like the stairwell, but the population, too. Physical explosions led to population explosions. Record numbers of lottery winners followed the fighting. His father spoke of so many bodies to dispose of that the airlock had been employed, the great flames cremating the dead by the score, their ashes set loose to blur the view. It made clear the link between life and death, that each birth was owed to another’s passing. The difference with Mission was that he knew who that other person was.

He reached IT and pushed his way through a crowd on landing thirty-four. It was mostly boys his age or a little older, many that he recognized, a lot from the mids. Several who didn’t match this profile stood with computers tucked under their arms, wires dangling, jostling with the rest. Mission picked his way through the throng. A computer was dropped, which led to shouting and shoving. Inside, he found a barrier had been set up just beyond the door. Two men from Security manned the temporary gate and allowed only crumpled IT workers through.

“Delivery,” Mission shouted. He worked his way to the front, carefully extracting the note Mrs. Crowe had written. “Delivery for Officer Jeffery.”

One of the security men took the note. Mission was pressed against the barrier by those behind. A woman who belonged was waved through. She hurried toward the proper security gate leading into the main hall, smoothing her coveralls with obvious relief. There were crowds of young men being given instructions in one corner of the wide hall. They stood at attention in neat rank and file, but their eyes were wide as the stairwell.

“What the hell is going on?” Mission asked, as the barrier was parted for him.

“What the hell isn’t?” one of the security guards rejoined. “Power spike last night took out a load of computers. Every one of our techs is pulling a double. There’s a fire down in Mechanical or something, and some kinda violence up in the farms. Did you get the wire?”

Mechanical. That was a long way away to nose a fire. And word was out about last night’s raid, making him self-conscious of the cut on his nose. “What wire?” he asked.

The security guard pointed to the groups of boys. “We’re hiring. New techs.”

All Mission saw were young men, and the guy talking to them was with Security, not IT. The security guard handed back the note to Mission and pointed toward the main security gate. The woman from earlier was already beeping her way through, a large and familiar bald head swiveling to watch her ass as she headed down the hall.

“Thanks,” Mission said to the guard, hurrying away from the crush of people. “Sir?” he called out as he approached the gate.

Jeffery turned his head, the deep wrinkles and folds of flesh disappearing from his neck.

“Hmm? Oh—” he snapped his fingers, trying to place the name.

“Mission.”

He wagged his finger. “That’s right. You need to leave something with me, porter?” He held out a palm but seemed disinterested.

Mission handed him the note. “Actually, I have orders from Mrs. Crowe to deliver it in person.” He pulled the sealed envelope with the crossed-out names from his courier pouch. “Just a letter, sir.”

The old guard glanced at the envelope, then continued reading the note addressed to him. “Rodny isn’t available.” He shook his head. “I can’t give you a timeframe, either. Could be weeks. You wanna leave it with me?”

Again, an outstretched palm; this time with more interest. Mission pulled the envelope back warily. “I can’t. There’s no way I can just hand it to him? This is the Crow, man. If it were the Mayor asking me, I’d say no problem.”

Jeffery smiled. “You were one of her boys, too?”

Mission nodded. The head of Security looked past him at a man approaching the gate with his ID out. Mission stepped aside as the gentleman scanned his way through, nodding good morning to Jeffery.

“Tell you what. I’m taking Rodny his lunch in a little bit. When I do, you can come with me, hand him the letter with me standing there, and I won’t have to worry about the Crow nipping my hide later. How’s that sound?”

Mission smiled. “Sounds good, man. I appreciate it.”

The officer pointed across the noisy entrance hall. “Why don’t you go grab yourself some water and hang in the conference room. There’s some boys in there filling out paperwork.” Jeffery looked Mission up and down. “In fact, why don’t you fill out an application? We could use you.”

“I… uh, don’t know much about computers,” Mission said.

Jeffery shrugged as if that were irrelevant. “Suit yourself. One of the boys will be relieving me in a little bit. I’ll come get you.”

Mission thanked him again. He crossed the large entrance hall where neat columns and rows of young men listened to barked instructions. Another guard waved him inside the conference room while holding out a sheet of paper and a shard of charcoal. Mission saw that the back of the paper was blank and took it with no plan for filling it out. Half a chit right there in usable paper.

There were a few empty chairs around the wide table. He chose one. A number of boys scribbled with their charcoals on the pages, faces scrunched up in concentration. Mission sat with his back to the only window and placed his sack on the wide table, kept the letter in his hands. The application he slid inside his pack for future use. He studied for the first time the Crow’s letter.

The envelope was old but addressed only a handful of times. One edge was worn tissue thin, a small tear revealing a folded piece of paper inside. Peering closer, Mission saw that it was pulp paper, probably made in the Crow’s Nest by one of her kids, water and handfuls of torn paper blended up and pressed down on screens and left overnight to dry. Bits of thread and various colors could be seen in there, and just the hint of writing.

“Mission,” someone at the table hissed.

He looked up to see Bradley sitting across from him. The fellow porter had his blue ’chief tied around his bicep. Mission had thought he was running a regular route in the Down Deep.

“You applying?” Bradley hissed.

One of the other boys coughed into his fist like he was asking for quiet. It looked like Bradley was already done with his application.

Mission shook his head. There was a knock on the window behind him, and he nearly dropped the letter as he whirled around. Jeffery stuck his head in the door. “Two minutes,” he said to Mission, ignoring the other lads. He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m just waiting on his tray.”

Mission bobbed his head as the door was pulled shut. The other boys looked at him curiously.

“Delivery,” Mission explained to Bradley loud enough for the others to hear. He pulled his pack closer and hid the envelope behind it. The boys went back to their scribbling. Bradley frowned and watched the others.

Mission studied the envelope again. Two minutes. How long would he have with Rodny? He tickled the corner of the sealed flap. The milk paste the Crow had used didn’t stick very well to the months-old—maybe years-old—dried glue from before. He worked one corner loose without glancing down at the envelope. Instead, he watched Bradley as he disobeyed the third cardinal rule of porting, telling himself this was different, that this was two old friends talking and he was just in the room with them. Just friends talking as he peeled the flap away.

Even so, his hands trembled as he pulled the letter out. He glanced down, keeping the note hidden. Purple and red string lay strewn in with the dark gray of cheap paper. Kid paper. The writing was in chalk. It meant the words had to be big. White powder gathered in the folds as it shivered loose from the words like dust falling from old pipes:

Part of an old nursery rhyme. Beat your wings, Mission whispered, remembering the rest, a story about a young crow learning to be free. Beat your wings and fly away to brighter things. Fly, fly with all your might! He started to check the back for a real note, something beyond this fragment of a rhyme, when someone banged on the window again. Several of the other boys dropped their charcoals and visibly startled. One boy cursed under his breath. Mission whirled around to see Jeffery on the other side of the glass, a covered meal tray balanced on one palm, his bald head jerking impatiently.

Mission folded the letter up and stuffed it back in the envelope. He raised his hand over his head to let Jeffery know he’d be right there, licked one finger and ran it across the sticky paste, re-sealing the envelope as best he could. “Good luck,” he told Bradley, even though he had no clue what the kid thought he was doing. He dragged his pack off the table, was careful to wipe away the chalk dust that had spilled, and hurried out of the conference room.

“Let’s go,” Jeffery said, clearly annoyed.

Mission hurried after him. He glanced back once at the window, then over at the noisy crowd jostling against the temporary barriers by the door. An IT tech approached the crowd with a computer, wires coiled neatly on top, and a woman reached out desperate arms from behind the barrier like a mother yearning for her baby.

“Since when did people start bringing their own computers up?” he asked, curious as a seasoned porter about how things got from there to here and back again. It felt as though he were witnessing yet another loop his kind was being sliced out of. Roker would have a fit.

“Yesterday. Mr. Wyck stopped sending our techs out. He says it’s safer this way. People being robbed out there and not enough security to go around.”

Jeffery was waved through the gates, Mission as well. They wound in silence through the hallways, every office full of clacking sounds or people arguing. Mission saw electrical parts and paper strewn everywhere. He wondered which office was Rodny’s and why nobody else was having their food delivered. Maybe his friend was in trouble. That was it. Made sense of everything. Maybe he had pulled one of his stunts. Did they have a holding cell on thirty-four? He didn’t think so. He was about to ask Jeffery if Rodny was in the pen when the old security guard stopped at an imposing steel door.

“Here.” He held the tray out to Mission, who stuck the letter between his lips and accepted it. Jeffery glanced back, blocked Mission’s view of a keypad with his body, and tapped in a code. A series of clunks sounded in the jamb of the heavy door. Fucking right, Rodny was in trouble. What kind of pen was this?

The door swung inward. Jeffery grabbed the tray and told Mission to wait there. Mission still had the taste of milk paste on his lips as he watched the security chief step inside a room that seemed to go back quite a ways. The lights inside pulsed as if something was wrong, red warning lights like a fire alarm. Jeffery called out for Rodny while Mission tried to peek around the guard for a better look.

Rodny arrived a moment later, almost as if expecting them. His eyes widened when he saw Mission standing there. Mission fought to close his own mouth, which he could feel hanging open at the sight of his friend.

“Hey.” Rodny opened the heavy door a little further and glanced down the hallway. “What’re you doing here?”

“Good to see you, too,” Mission said. He held out the letter. “The Crow sent this.”

“Ah, official business.” Rodny smiled. “You’re here as a porter, eh? Not a friend?”

Rodny smiled, but Mission could see that his friend was beat. He looked like he hadn’t slept for days. His hair had been chopped short as if to keep it out of the way, but there was the shadow of a beard on his chin. Mission glanced into the room, wondering what they had him doing in there. Tall black metal cabinets were all he could see. They stretched out of sight, neatly spaced.

“You learning to fix refrigerators?” Mission asked.

Rodny glanced over his shoulder. He laughed. “Those are computers.” He still had that tone like one who thought himself older or better. Mission nearly reminded his friend that today was his birthday, that they were the same age. Rodny was the only one he ever felt like reminding. Jeffery cleared his throat impatiently, seemed annoyed by the chatter.

Rodny turned to the security chief. “You mind if we have a few seconds?” he asked.

Jeffery shifted his weight, the stiff leather of his boots squeaking. “You know I can’t,” he said. “I’ll probably get chewed out for allowing even this.”

“You’re right.” Rodny shook his head like he shouldn’t have asked. Mission studied the exchange. He sensed that his friend was the same one he’d ever known. He was in trouble for something, probably being forced to do the most reviled task in all of IT for a brash thing he’d said or done. He smiled at the thought.

Rodny tensed suddenly as though he’d heard something deep inside the room. He held up a finger to the others and asked them to wait there. “Just a second,” he said, rushing off, bare feet slapping on the steel floors.

Jeffery crossed his arms and looked Mission up and down unhappily. “You two grow up down the hall from each other?”

“Went to school together,” Mission said. “So what did Rod do? You know, Mrs. Crowe used to make us sweep the entire Nest and clean the blackboards if we cut up in class. We did our fair share of sweeping, the two of us.”

Jeffery appraised him for a moment. And then his expressionless face shattered into tooth and grin. “You think your friend is in trouble,” he said. He seemed on the verge of laughing. “Son, you have no idea.”

Before Mission could inquire, Rodny returned, smiling and breathless.

“Sorry,” he said to Jeffery. “I had to get that.” He turned to Mission. “Thanks for coming by, man. Good to see you.”

That was it?

“Good to see you, too,” Mission sputtered, surprised that their visit would be so brief. “Hey, don’t be a stranger.” He went to give his old friend a hug, but Rodny stuck out a hand instead. Mission looked at it for a pause, confused, wondering if they’d grown apart so far so fast.

“Give my best to everyone,” Rodny said, as if he might never see them again himself.

Jeffery cleared his throat, clearly annoyed and ready to go.

“I will,” Mission said, fighting to keep the sadness out of his voice. He accepted his friend’s hand. They shook like strangers, the smile on Rodny’s face quivering, the folds of the note hidden in his palm digging sharply into Mission’s hand.

•12•

It was a miracle Mission didn’t drop the note as it was passed to him, a miracle that he knew something was amiss, to keep his mouth closed, to not stand there a fool in front of Jeffery and say, “Hey, what’s this?” Instead, he kept the wad of paper balled in his fist as he was escorted back toward the security station. They were nearly there when someone called “Porter!” from one of the offices they passed.

Jeffery placed a hand on Mission’s chest, forcing him to a stop. They turned, and a familiar man strode down the hallway to meet them. It was Mr. Wyck, Head of IT, familiar to most porters. The endless shuffle of broken and repaired computers once kept the Upper Dispatch as busy as Supply kept the lower. Mission gathered that may have changed since yesterday.

“You on duty, son?” Mr. Wyck studied the porter’s ’chief knotted around Mission’s neck.

“Yessir.” Mission hid the note from Rodny behind his back. He pressed it into his pocket with his thumb, like a seed going to soil. “You need something moved, sir?”

“I do.” Mr. Wyck studied him for a moment. “You’re the Jones boy, right? The zero.”

Mission felt a flash of heat around his neck at the use of the term, a reference to the fact that no lottery number had been pulled for him. “Yessir. It’s Mission.” He offered his hand. Mr. Wyck accepted it.

“Yes, yes. I went to school with your father. And your mother, of course.”

He paused to give Mission time to respond. Mission ground his teeth together and said nothing. He let go of the man’s hand before his sweaty palms had a chance to speak for him.

“Say I wanted to move something without going through Dispatch.” Mr. Wyck smiled. “And say I wanted to avoid the sort of nastiness that took place last night a few levels up from here.”

Mission glanced over at Jeffery, who seemed disinterested in the conversation. It was strange to hear this sort of offer from a man of authority in front of a member of Security, but there was one thing Mission had discovered since he emerged from his shadowing days: things only got darker.

“I don’t follow,” Mission said. He fought the urge to turn and see how far they were from the security gate. A woman emerged from an office down the hall, behind Mr. Wyck. Jeffery made a gesture with his hand, and she stopped and kept her distance, out of earshot.

“I think you do, and I admire your discretion,” Mr. Wyck said. “Two hundred chits to move a package a half dozen levels from Supply.”

Mission tried to remain calm. Two hundred chits. A month’s pay for half a day’s work. But he feared this was some sort of test. Maybe Rodny had gotten in trouble for flunking a similar one.

“I don’t know—” he said.

“It’s an open invite,” Wyck said. “The next porter that comes through will get the same offer. I don’t care who does it, but the first will get the chits. You don’t have to answer me. Just show up and ask for Joyce at the Supply counter. Tell her you’re doing a job for Wyck. There’ll be a delivery report detailing the rest.”

“I’ll think about it, sir.”

“Good.” Mr. Wyck smiled.

“Anything else?”

“No, no. You’re free to go.” He nodded to Jeffery, who snapped back from wherever he’d checked out to.

“Thank you, sir.” Mission turned and followed the chief.

“Oh, and happy birthday, son,” Mr. Wyck called out.

Mission glanced back, didn’t say thanks, just hurried after Jeffery and through the security gate, past the crowds and out on the landing, down two turns of stairs, where he finally reached into his pocket for the note from Rodny. Paranoid he might drop it and watch it bounce off the stairs and through the rail, he gingerly and methodically unfolded the scrap of paper. It looked like the same rag blend Mrs. Crowe’s note had been written on, the same threads of purple and red mixed in with the rough gray weave. For a moment, Mission feared the note would be addressed to the Crow rather than to him, maybe more lines in old nursery rhymes. He worked the piece of paper flat, one side blank, turned it over to read the other.

It wasn’t addressed to anyone. Just two words, and Mission remembered the way his friend’s smile had quivered while they shook hands.

Mission felt suddenly alone. There was the smell of something burning lingering in the stairwell, a tinge of smoke that mixed with the paint from drying graffiti. He took the small note and tore it into ever smaller pieces. He kept tearing until there was nothing left to pinch with his fingers, nothing left to shred. He waited until a passing man spiraled out of sight and then sprinkled the dull confetti over the rail to drift down and disappear into the void.

The evidence was gone, but the message lingered vividly in his mind. The hasty scrawl, the shadowy scratch the edge of a coin or a spoon made as it was dragged across paper, two words barely legible from his friend who never needed anybody or asked for anything:

Help me.

And that was all.