part 2 proper gauge

9

jahns’s walking stick made a conspicuous ring as it impacted each metal step. it soon became a

metronome for their descent, timing the music of the stairwell, which was crowded and vibrating

with the energy of a recent cleaning. all the traffic seemed to be heading upward, save for the two of

them. they jostled against the flow, elbows brushing, cries of “hey, mayor!” followed by nods to

marnes. and jahns saw it on their faces: the temptation to call him sheriff tempered by their respect

for the awful nature of his assumed promotion.

“how many floors you up for?” marnes asked.

“why, you tired already?” jahns glanced over her shoulder to smirk at him, saw his bushy

mustache twisted up in a smile of his own.

“going down ain’t a problem for me. it’s the going back up i can’t stand.”

their hands briefly collided on the twisted railing of the spiral staircase, jahns’s hand trailing

behind her, marnes’s reaching ahead. she felt like telling him she wasn’t tired at all, but she did feel

a sudden weariness, an exhaustion more mental than physical. she had a childish vision of more

youthful times and pictured marnes scooping her up and carrying her down the staircase in his arms.

there would be a sweet release of strength and responsibility, a sinking into another’s power, no need

to feign her own. this was not a remembrance of the past—it was a future that had never happened.

and jahns felt guilty for even thinking it. she felt her husband beside her, his ghost perturbed by her

thoughts—

“mayor? how many you thinking?”

the two of them stopped and hugged the rail as a porter trudged up the stairs. jahns recognized

the boy, connor, still in his teens but already with a strong back and steady stride. he had an array of

bundles strapped together and balanced on his shoulders. the sneer on his face was not from

exhaustion or pain, but annoyance. who were all these people suddenly on his stairwell? these

tourists? jahns thought of something encouraging to say, some small verbal reward for these people

who did a job her knees never could, but he was already gone on his strong young feet, carrying food

and supplies up from the down deep, slowed only by the crush of traffic attempting to worm up

through the silo for a peek of the clear and wide outside.

she and marnes caught their breath for a moment between flights. marnes handed her his canteen,

and she took a polite sip before passing it back.

“i’d like to do half today,” she finally answered. “but i want to make a few stops on the way.”

marnes took a swig of water and began twisting the cap back on. “house calls?”

“something like that. i want to stop at the nursery on twenty.”

marnes laughed. “kissin’ babies? mayor, ain’t nobody gonna vote you out. not at your age.”

jahns didn’t laugh. “thanks,” she said with a mask of false pain. “but no, not to kiss babies.” she

turned her back and resumed walking; marnes followed. “it’s not that i don’t trust your professional

opinion about this jules lady. you haven’t picked anything but a winner since i’ve been mayor.”

“even … ?” marnes interrupted.

“especially him,” jahns said, knowing what he was thinking. “he was a good man, but he had a

broken heart. that’ll take even the best of them down.”

marnes grunted his agreement. “so what’re we checkin’ at the nursery? this juliette weren’t born

on the twentieth, not if i recall—”

“no, but her father works there now. i thought, since we were passing by, that we’d get a feel for

the man, get some insight on his daughter.”

“a father for a character witness?” marnes laughed. “don’t reckon you’ll get much of an

impartial there.”

“i think you’ll be surprised,” jahns said. “i had alice do some digging while i was packing. she

found something interesting.”

“yeah?”

“this juliette character still has every vacation chit she’s ever earned.”

“that ain’t rare for mechanical,” marnes said. “they do a lot of overtime.”

“not only does she not get out, she doesn’t have visitors.”

“i still don’t see where you’re going with this.”

jahns waited while a family passed. a young boy, six or seven probably, rode on his father’s

shoulders with his head ducked to avoid the undersides of the stairs above. the mother brought up

the rear, an overnight bag draped over her shoulder, a swaddled infant cradled in her arms. it was the

perfect family, jahns thought. replacing what they took. two for two. just what the lottery aimed for

and sometimes provided.

“well then, let me tell you where i’m going with this,” she told marnes. “i want to find this girl’s

father, look him in the eyes, and ask him why, in the nearly twenty years since his daughter moved to

mechanical, he hasn’t visited her. not once.”

she looked back at marnes, saw him frowning at her beneath his mustache.

“and why she hasn’t once made her way up to see him,” she added.

••••

the traffic thinned as they made their way into the teens and past the upper apartments. with each

step down, jahns dreaded having to reclaim those lost inches on the way back up. this was the easy

part, she reminded herself. the descent was like the uncoiling of a steel spring, pushing her down. it

reminded jahns of nightmares she’d had of drowning. silly nightmares, considering she’d never seen

enough water to submerge herself in, much less enough that she couldn’t stand up to breathe. but

they were like the occasional dreams of falling from great heights, some legacy of another time,

broken fragments unearthed in each of their sleeping minds that suggested: we weren’t supposed to

live like this.

and so the descent, this spiraling downward, was much like the drowning that swallowed her at

night. it felt inexorable and inextricable. like a weight pulling her down combined with the

knowledge that she’d never be able to claw her way back up.

they passed the garment district next, the land of multicolored coveralls and the place her balls of

yarn came from. the smell of the dyes and other chemicals drifted over the landing. a window cut

into the curving cinder blocks looked through to a small food shop at the edge of the district. it had

been ransacked by the crowds, shelves emptied by the crushing demand of exhausted hikers and the

extra post-cleaning traffic. several porters crowded up the stairs with heavy loads, trying their best to

satisfy demand, and jahns recognized an awful truth about yesterday’s cleaning: the barbaric practice

brought more than psychological relief, more than just a clear view of the outside—it also buttressed

the silo’s economy. there was suddenly an excuse to travel. an excuse to trade. and as gossip

flowed, and family and old friends met again for the first time in months or perhaps years, there was a

vitality injected into the entire silo. it was like an old body stretching and loosening its joints, blood

flowing to the extremities. a decrepit thing was becoming alive again.

“mayor!”

she turned to find marnes almost out of sight around the spiral above her. she paused while he

caught up, watching his feet as he hurried.

“easy,” he said. “i can’t keep up if you take off like that.”

jahns apologized. she hadn’t been aware of any change in her pace.

as they entered the second tier of apartments, down below the sixteenth floor, jahns realized she

was already in territory she hadn’t seen in almost a year. there was the rattle here of younger legs

chasing along the stairwell, getting tangled up in the slow climbers. the grade school for the upper

third was just above the nursery. from the sound of all the traffic and voices, school had been

canceled. jahns imagined it was a combination of knowing how few would turn up for class (with

parents taking their kids up to the view) plus how many teachers would want to do the same. they

passed the landing for the school, where chalk games of hop and square-four were blurred from the

day’s traffic, where kids sat hugging the rails, skinned knees poking out, feet swinging below the

jutting landings, and where catcalls and eager shouts faded to secret whispers in the presence of

adults.

“glad we’re almost there, i need a rest,” marnes said as they spiraled down one more flight to the

nursery. “i just hope this feller is available to see us.”

“he will be,” jahns said. “alice wired him from my office that we were coming.”

they crossed traffic at the nursery landing and caught their breath. when marnes passed his

canteen, jahns took a long pull and then checked her hair in its curved and dented surface.

“you look fine,” he said.

“mayoral?”

he laughed. “and then some.”

jahns thought she saw a twinkle in his old brown eyes when he said this, but it was probably the

light bouncing off the canteen as he brought it to his lips.

“twenty floors in just over two hours. don’t recommend the pace, but i’m glad we’re this far

already.” he wiped his mustache and reached around to try to slip the canteen back into his pack.

“here,” jahns said. she took the canteen from him and slid it into the webbed pouch on the rear of

his pack. “and let me do the talking in here,” she reminded him.

marnes lifted his hands and showed his palms, as if no other thought had ever crossed his mind.

he stepped past her and pulled one of the heavy metal doors open, the customary squeal of rusted

hinges not coming as expected. the silence startled jahns. she was used to hearing the chirp of old

doors up and down the staircase as they opened and closed. they were the stairwell’s version of the

wildlife found in the farms, ever present and always singing. but these hinges were coated in oil,

rigorously maintained. the signs on the walls of the waiting room reinforced the observation. they

demanded silence in bold letters, accompanied by pictures of fingers over lips and circles with slashes

through open mouths. the nursery evidently took its quietude seriously.

“don’t remember so many signs last time i was here,” marnes whispered.

“maybe you were too busy yapping to notice,” jahns replied.

a nurse glared at them through a glass window, and jahns elbowed marnes.

“mayor jahns to see peter nichols,” she told the woman.

the nurse behind the window didn’t blink. “i know who you are. i voted for you.”

“oh, of course. well, thank you.”

“if you’ll come around.” the woman hit a button on her desk and the door beside her buzzed

faintly. marnes pushed on the door, and jahns followed him through.

“if you’ll don these.”

the nurse—margaret, according to the hand-drawn tag on her collar—held out two neatly folded

white cloth robes. jahns accepted them both and handed one to marnes.

“you can leave your bags with me.”

there was no refusing margaret. jahns felt at once that she was in this much younger woman’s

world, that she had become her inferior when she passed through that softly buzzing door. she leaned

her walking stick against the wall, took her pack off and lowered it to the ground, then shrugged on

the robe. marnes struggled with his until margaret helped, holding the sleeve in place. he wrestled

the robe over his denim shirt and held the loose ends of the long fabric waist tie as if its working was

beyond his abilities. he watched jahns knot hers, and finally made enough of a mess of it for the robe

to hold fairly together.

“what?” he asked, noticing the way jahns was watching him. “this is what i’ve got cuffs for. so i

never learned to tie a knot, so what?”

“in sixty years,” jahns said.

margaret pressed another button on her desk and pointed down the hall. “dr. nichols is in the

nursery. i’ll let him know you’re coming.”

jahns led the way. marnes followed, asking her, “why is that so hard to believe?”

“i think it’s cute, actually.”

marnes snorted. “that’s an awful word to use on a man my age.”

jahns smiled to herself. at the end of the hall, she paused before a set of double doors before

pushing them open a crack. the light in the room beyond was dim. she opened the door further, and

they entered a sparse but clean waiting room. she remembered a similar one from the mid levels

where she had waited with a friend to be reunited with her child. a glass wall looked into a room that

held a handful of cribs and bassinets. jahns’s hand dropped to her hip. she rubbed the hard nub of her

now-useless implant, inserted at birth and never removed, not once. being in that nursery reminded

her of all she had lost, all she had given up for her work. for her ghosts.

it was too dark inside the nursery to see if any of the small beds stirred with newborns. she was

notified of every birth, of course. as mayor, she signed a letter of congratulations and a birth

certificate for each one, but the names ran together with the days. she could rarely remember what

level the parents lived on, if it was their first or second. it made her sad to admit it, but those

certificates had become just more paperwork, another rote duty.

the shadowy outline of an adult moved among the small cribs, the shiny clamp of a clipboard and

the flash of a metal pen winking in the light of the observation room. the dark shape was obviously

tall, with the gait and build of an older man. he took his time, noting something as he hovered over a

crib, the two shimmers of metal uniting to jot a note. when he was done, he crossed the room and

passed through a wide door to join marnes and jahns in the waiting room.

peter nichols was an imposing figure, jahns saw. tall and lean, but not like marnes, who seemed

to fold and unfold unsure limbs to move about. peter was lean like a habitual exerciser, like a few

porters jahns knew who could take the stairs two at a time and make it look like they’d been

expressly designed for such a pace. it was height that lent confidence. jahns could feel it as she took

peter’s outstretched hand and let him pump it firmly.

“you came,” dr. nichols said simply. it was a cold observation. there was only a hint of surprise.

he shook marnes’s hand, but his eyes returned to jahns. “i explained to your secretary that i

wouldn’t be much help. i’m afraid i haven’t seen juliette since she became a shadow twenty years

ago.”

“well, that’s actually what i wanted to talk to you about.” jahns glanced at the cushioned benches

where she imagined anxious grandparents, aunts, and uncles waited while parents were united with

their newborns. “could we sit?”

dr. nichols nodded and waved them over.

“i take each of my appointments for office very seriously,” jahns explained, sitting across from

the doctor. “at my age, i expect most judges and lawmen i install to outlive me, so i choose

carefully.”

“but they don’t always, do they?” dr. nichols tilted his head, no expression on his lean and

carefully shaven face. “outlive you, i mean.”

jahns swallowed. marnes stirred on the bench beside her.

“you must value family,” jahns said, changing the subject, realizing this was just another

observation, no harm meant. “to have shadowed so long and to choose such a demanding line of

work.”

nichols nodded.

“why do you and juliette never visit? i mean, not once in twenty years. she’s your only child.”

nichols turned his head slightly, his eyes drifting to the wall. jahns was momentarily distracted by

the sight of another form moving behind the glass, a nurse making the rounds. another set of doors

led off to what she assumed were the delivery rooms, where right now a convalescing new mother

was probably waiting to be handed her most precious possession.

“i had a son as well,” dr. nichols said.

jahns felt herself reaching for her bag to procure the folders within, but it wasn’t by her side. this

was a detail she had missed, a brother.

“you couldn’t have known,” nichols said, correctly reading the shock on mayor jahns’s face.

“he didn’t survive. technically, he wasn’t born. the lottery moved on.”

“i’m sorry …”

she fought the urge to reach over and hold marnes’s hand. it had been decades since the two of

them had purposefully touched, even innocently, but the sudden sadness in the room punctured that

intervening time.

“his name was going to be nicholas, my father’s father’s name. he was born prematurely. one

pound eight ounces.”

the clinical precision in his voice was somehow sadder than an outpouring of emotion might have

been.

“they intubated, moved him into an incubator, but there were … complications.” dr. nichols

looked down at the backs of his hands. “juliette was thirteen at the time. she was as excited as we

were, if you can imagine, to have a baby brother on the way. she was one year out from shadowing

her mother, who was a delivery nurse.” nichols glanced up. “not here in this nursery, mind you, but

in the old mid-level nursery, where we both worked. i was still an intern then.”

“and juliette?” mayor jahns still didn’t understand the connection.

“there was a failure with the incubator. when nicholas—” the doctor turned his head to the side

and brought his hand halfway to his eyes but was able to compose himself. “i’m sorry. i still call him

that.”

“it’s okay.”

mayor jahns was holding deputy marnes’s hand. she wasn’t sure when or how that had

happened. the doctor didn’t seem to notice or, more likely, care.

“poor juliette.” he shook his head. “she was distraught. she blamed rhoda at first, an

experienced delivery nurse who had done nothing but work a miracle to give our boy the slim chance

he had. i explained this. i think juliette knew. she just needed someone to hate.” he nodded to jahns.

“girls that age, you know?”

“believe it or not, i remember.” jahns forced a smile and dr. nichols returned it. she felt marnes

squeeze her hand.

“it wasn’t until her mother died that she took to blaming the incubator that had failed. well, not

the incubator, but the poor condition it was in. the general state of rot all things become.”

“your wife died from the complications?” it was another detail jahns felt she must have missed

from the file.

“my wife killed herself a week later.”

again, the clinical detachment. jahns wondered if this was a survival mechanism that had kicked

in after these events, or a personality trait already in place.

“seems like i would remember that,” deputy marnes said, the first words he’d uttered since

introducing himself to the doctor.

“well, i wrote the certificate myself. so i could put whatever cause i wanted—”

“and you admit to this?” marnes seemed ready to leap off the bench. to do what, jahns could

hardly guess. she held his arm to keep him in place.

“beyond the statute of limitations? of course. i admit it. it was a worthless lie, anyway. juliette

was smart, even at that age. she knew. and this is what drove her—” he stopped himself.

“drove her what?” mayor jahns asked. “crazy?”

“no.” dr. nichols shook his head. “i wasn’t going to say that. it’s what drove her away. she

applied for a change in casters. demanded to move down to mechanical, to enter the shop as a

shadow. she was a year too young for that sort of placement, but i agreed. i signed off on it. i thought

she’d go, get some deep air, come back. i was naïve. i thought the freedom would be good for her.”

“and you haven’t seen her since?”

“once. for her mother’s funeral, just a few days later. she marched up on her own, attended the

burial, gave me a hug, then marched back down. all without rest, from what i’ve heard. i try to keep

up with her. i have a colleague in the deep nursery who will wire now and then with a bit of news.

it’s all focus, focus, focus with her.”

nichols paused and laughed.

“you know, when she was young, all i saw was her mother in her. but she grew up to be more

like me.”

“is there anything you know that would preclude her from or make her ill suited for the job of silo

sheriff? you do understand what’s involved with the job, right?”

“i understand.” nichols looked over at marnes, his eye drifting to the copper badge visible

through the open, shoddily tied robe, down to the bulge of a pistol at his side. “all the little lawmen

throughout the silo have to have someone up top, giving commands, is that it?”

“more or less,” jahns said.

“why her?”

marnes cleared his throat. “she helped us with an investigation once—”

“jules? she was up here?”

“no. we were down there.”

“she has no training.”

“none of us have,” marnes said. “it’s more of a … political office. a citizen’s post.”

“she won’t agree to it.”

“why not?” jahns asked.

nichols shrugged. “you’ll see for yourself, i suppose.” he stood. “i wish i could give you more

time, but i really should get back.” he glanced at the set of double doors. “we’ll be bringing a family

in soon—”

“i understand.” jahns rose and shook his hand. “i appreciate your seeing us.”

he laughed. “did i have a choice?”

“of course.”

“well, i wish i’d known that sooner.”

he smiled, and jahns saw that he was joking, or attempting to. as they parted company and

walked back down the hallway to collect their things and return the robes, jahns found herself more

and more intrigued by this nomination of marnes’s. it wasn’t his style, a woman from the down deep.

a person with baggage. she wondered if his judgment was perhaps clouded by other factors. and as

he held the door for her, leading out to the main waiting room, mayor jahns wondered if she was

going along with him because her judgment was clouded as well.